


Unit Cohesion

by Rehfan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - Ian Fleming, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bruises, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Masturbation, Medical Procedures, Public Sex, Rejection, Rimming, Shower Sex, Smut, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:02:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Unit cohesion" is a military concept, defined by one former United States Chief of staff in the early 1980s as "the bonding together of soldiers in such a way as to sustain their will and commitment to each other, the unit, and mission accomplishment, despite combat or mission stress".</p><p>John Watson and James Bond share a past.</p><p>But will it affect their future?</p><p>And what do Sherlock and Q have to say about it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the incomparable Abundantly Queer without whom this story would never have been written.

Autumn was kicking up in London as John bundled his coat collar about him. He was making his way out of the flat at an ungodly hour of night not because he was joining Sherlock on a case, no. They had just finished one that evening and John had no sooner gained access to the flat when he realized that he would have to go out right then. It was so infuriating. It would be one thing if he had forgotten. But no, as always, it was Sherlock. So he put his jacket back on, making sure his weapon was sufficiently concealed – he wasn’t leaving a loaded gun in the possession of a bored Sherlock – and left. It wasn’t a mission of mercy. It wasn’t a mission of duty. No, he was headed out into the blustery pitch black because his useless tit of a flat mate couldn’t be arsed to remember to buy milk. Again.

An all-night market had sprung up not six streets south of Baker and John was grateful to have noticed it. As he passed by a tight alleyway, he thought he heard a muffled gunshot. His instincts went on high-alert instantly and he drew his Browning. He skirted past the bins and crouched, peering around a corner and into the darkness. There was movement ahead. John risked getting closer.

Stealthily he crept, weapon drawn, his senses tingling with anticipation. More scuffling sounds came from just ahead of him and he slowed his pace and muffled his step as best he could. He heard a voice. It was clearly speaking to someone, but he couldn’t hear the other party. Feeling bold, he peered around another corner and saw a man standing with his back to him. He had a weapon in his hand.

“Hands!” cried John as he raised his weapon. The unknown figure raised his arms obediently. “Turn around,” said John. The stranger complied.

As soon as John saw the profile of the man before him, he lowered his weapon and asked: “James?”

 

~080~

 

James Bond carried the drinks back to the corner table John had managed to secure in the noisy pub. Saturday nights in London were always insane. Regaining his seat he commented: “So this is your local? Bit grotty ‘round the edges, mate.”

John chuckled over his beer. “Yeah, but the people are alright. Bartender’s a former copper. He and his best mate run the place. Over there,” said John pointing out a young man in an Arsenal football shirt, “that’s his son. It’s a family business, this.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” John asked after he had drunk half his pint in silence. “I mean, what were you up to in that alley? And who were you talking to?”

“I was making a phone call,” said Bond. “Can’t get any quiet no matter where I go.”

“A phone call?” said John, obviously dubious. He smirked. “And you make all your phone calls from dark alleys while armed?”

Bond barely concealed a grin. “Can’t be too careful, these days.”

John nodded. He would have to give this entire line of questioning a pass. In fact, considering what they both knew of each other, John was willing to give James a lot of leeway on a lot of things. “What do you do now?” John asked. “I mean, other than making dangerous nighttime phone calls.”

“I’m in international shipping,” said Bond, giving his cover story one more go-around. He felt sort of guilty foisting it on John like that, but if the former captain knew what he was up to in that alley, he would be considered a security risk. Bond couldn’t have that. Best to play things close to the vest and pray that John saw nothing.

“That must be… interesting,” said John politely.

“What about you?” said Bond. “What are you doing these days? Still stitching people up?”

John smiled. “Not as much as I used to. I still do the doctor thing. But it’s more a part-time, fill-in sort of situation.”

“And what are you doing the rest of the time?” said Bond.

“My flat mate’s a detective. Consulting detective. Works with the police on investigations. I help him out on occasion,” said John.

Bond nodded. “That explains why you still have your sidearm,” he said. “But it doesn’t explain why you had it on you tonight.”

“We had just come off a case. Dangerous business. Smuggling ring. You can read about it on my blog in a couple of days or so,” said John. He glanced at his watch. “Oh Christ. I’ve got to go. I’ve still got to get the milk.”

“You can’t stay for another pint?” asked Bond. He was actually just beginning to enjoy himself. He had forgotten how much he liked John. And his life sounded rather exciting.

“No,” said John. “You don’t understand what living with Sherlock is like. He needs constant looking-after. It’s a fucking nightmare. The bastard can’t even buy the milk for the flat.” He stood up and offered his hand. “Listen, it was good seeing you again, James. Stay safe out there, will you?” Bond nodded his assent, shaking John’s hand. John added: “I’ve missed you, oddly enough. This has been nice.”

“Then meet me for dinner in a week,” said Bond impulsively. John raised his eyebrows in surprise and released James’ hand. Bond said, “I really missed you too. And I’d like to talk with you more, if you don’t mind.”

“Listen,” said John. “If this is about Maiwand-“

“Yeah,” said Bond. “Something like that.” Bond’s blue eyes were pleading: “Please, John. Let me see you again.”

John thought a moment and said, “Alright. But honestly, there’s nothing to discuss.”

“Then we’ll just enjoy the food,” said Bond and he gave John the name of a fairly posh restaurant in Marylebone. 

 

~080~

 

“That took a while…” said Sherlock. He was staring into his microscope at what John could only hope was mold. Sherlock lifted his head and glanced at John. “What’s her name?”

“Sorry?” asked John, putting the milk away.

“Her name. Her name!” said Sherlock. “Or didn’t you bother getting her name?”

John sighed and took off his coat. “What are you on about, Sherlock?”

“Don’t tell me that you’re going to deny going to that odious pub tonight? I can smell the scent of the place on you and… “Sherlock leapt up from his stool and raced to John’s side, placing his face right up to John’s. He inhaled deeply. “You smell of beer,” he observed, wrinkling his nose.

“Yes, alright,” said John, annoyed. “You got me. I went for a pint. Sue me.” He moved around Sherlock and slumped into the sofa.

“And you pulled too,” said Sherlock.

John muttered: “Oh I’ve got to hear this.” He sat up and looked directly at Sherlock. “How in hell did you deduce that?”

“From your gait coming up the stairs,” said Sherlock. “Mood and emotion are carried throughout the body, John. And your body is very loud.”

John nodded in a world-weary way, pinched his nose, and got up. “Right. And with that, I’m off to bed. Goodnight, Sherlock. Try not to set the house on fire, if you please.” John went upstairs without looking back.

If he had, he would have noticed Sherlock shrug and go back to his microscope.

 

~080~

 

Maiwand was hell on earth. And James Bond had been there to witness it with John. It was supposed to be routine. It was supposed to be a standard-issue slap on the wrist to the offending Arabs involved. The higher-ups thought it would only take 250 men, plus about 200 of the Indian forces, and everything would be fine. The presence of the British Army alone would cease the unrest. It would be a toddle.

Yeah. Idiots.

John remembered all too vividly the spirit of the day: over-confident soldiers arrogantly swaggering into the Maiwand borders. They really didn’t foresee any danger. There was no reason to be alarmed. It was all going to be easy. Just a simple smack across the face and off they would run.

Errant firing happened here and there once they had established camp just outside the town on the banks of a river bed, but no one was really bothered by it. They felt safe right where they were, the empty riverbed forming a dry moat between camp and town. At certain times of the year the river ran deep, but at that time of year, it was barely there. The camp took no particular note of it; the only exception being the curiosity raised around the question of how long it would take their whole company to get into the ravine and up the other side, if it came to a charge on the town. Most figured seven minutes at best. John himself had laid three-to-one odds that it would take less than five. They had all laughed about it.

Bond was there on special assignment to assess the situation in Maiwand – and that’s as much as anyone knew about him. Bond wanted to solve this without bloodshed just as much as anyone, but he doubted that the mere presence of the army would sway the people of the region into cowed obedience. Unfortunately, his superiors trusted the Army’s superiors and so the agent was told to sit on his hands while the gods played tiddly-winks with all their fates. With nothing better to do, Bond turned his attention to cards.

There were more than a few poker games going in the camp, but only one that was worth playing at. The doctor was host to this game, often taking home the biggest pots and attempting to be a gracious winner. He didn’t succeed with everyone at this. Two fights had broken out in as many games and the next day John had stitched up the people who were trying to throttle him the night before.

Ice was at a premium in the desert. Aspirin was being taken like candy in order to heal the pain. The CO wasn’t very happy about any of it, but then, he had been the one losing the most when the second fight broke out. James had to be stitched up after that one as well. It was particularly brutal what with the introduction of a truncheon to the mix. John would have been clobbered if James hadn’t have stepped in.

“Cheers for the help, mate,” said John as he leaned in closely over the agent’s wound.

“Happy to be of service,” said James. He watched the doctor carefully as he sewed up the cut above his eye. John saw him watching and blushed when he realized just how blue James’ eyes were. For a moment he hesitated in his work and caught himself. “Something wrong?”asked James.

John just shook his head, not trusting his own voice. Clearing his throat, he focused on the wound and tried desperately to ignore the immensely attractive man under his care.

John laid on his bed in 221B and sighed at the memory of their first real encounter. He should have kissed James right then. He really should have just fucking snogged him. It was a shame that they took so long to find one another in camp. It was an even bigger shame to know that it would take hell opening in order for them to find the solace they had both been seeking.

He shifted his weight and noticed his erection. He hadn’t had a wank in a while and he hadn’t thought about Bond in even longer. John reached down and pushed his pyjama bottoms away from his semi-hard dick. He opened his bedside table drawer and got out his lube. As he took himself in lubed-up hand, he closed his eyes and thought about that man in the pub, the one with the same eyes as that desert-tanned soldier in the field. James looked so fucking posh tonight. And lush. Fuck.

John gripped himself slightly tighter as he imagined James taking hold of him in that crowded pub. Jesus, he would be terrified to have been caught, but the place was so busy and noisy, no one would really have noticed him getting a hand job under the table. Right? But John only blushed at the thought of attempting to stifle his cries of ecstasy at James' ministrations. Son of a bitch, it would have been so fucking hot to have that happen in front of God and everyone; secret and private, but in the most public place. And then James would compound his embarrassment (typical James) by leaning over and kissing him. Oh yes… yes yes yes.

He remembered faintly James’ kiss: salty and musky with just a little lip and a lot of tongue. Christ, that tongue drove him insane more than once in the desert heat. John could feel his climax build as he stroked himself to orgasm. His hips ground up against his fist, increasing the friction, the heat building in his groin and threatening to explode at any moment as a phantom James licked the tip of his dick with that gorgeous tongue.

He was over the edge in moments, eyes tight shut and stifling a cry of “James!”


	2. Chapter 2

_It hit fast and they didn’t have any time to do anything. It was only a noise at first. The cave that was converted to a field hospital at the rear of the compound only got the faint rumblings. From there it sounded like an ocean wave, a white noise that just got steadily louder until you realized that dust was kicking up more than usual outside._

_Bond had thought it was a dust storm and that the men were scrambling for cover, but all weather reports had the same information: arid and hot. There were no high winds either, he noticed, as he looked out from the mouth of the cave. A soldier had hung his washing and it didn’t move in any breeze. Then the sound of gunfire came into the mix._

_Bond had to leap out of the way to avoid the rush of soldiers heading out of the cave and into the camp proper. Every man looking around a bit, orienting his sight from the darkness of the cave to the blinding sunlight reflecting off of everything. As soon as they perceived the danger, they ran off toward it, whooping with delight. Finally: action!_

_John was poised to go out too when Bond stopped him. “Best not, captain,” said Bond, a hand to the man’s chest._

_John glanced down at it, shocked. “Why the hell not?” he asked._

_“You’re a medic. You’ll be needed here,” Bond answered simply._

_“I’ll be needed out there!” retorted John and attempted to push past him._

_Something inside James snapped. Perhaps it was the time spent watching the man from a distance at the poker games, admiring the way he socialized: carefree, concerned, jolly, and crafty. Perhaps it was the excuses he would make about the cave being cooler and decidedly less sandy than his own tents, explaining his unneeded presence in the field hospital, close to John, getting to know him one-on-one. Either way, Bond felt something for Captain Watson that was indefinable. He only began to acknowledge it two days before when he decided to move his tent to the other side of the doctor’s. It was then he knew he must be falling for the man. And now here John was: attempting to kill himself by running into god knows what to save the entire camp._

_Well he would do, Bond thought, wouldn’t he? He’s a fucking soldier._

_But that thought came much later._

_For now, the only thought that ran through Bond’s mind was: NO. And he pushed John roughly up against the sandbagged walls of the entryway, his forearm against John’s throat. His sudden actions surprised both of them, John glaring at him in a way that spelled confusion and anger and seriously, what the fuck?_

_Bond paused and regained control as the maelstrom of war went on around them. He released John’s neck, never losing eye contact with him, trying to send his apologies telepathically while simultaneously leaning ever closer over John’s open mouth. They breathed each other’s air for a suspended moment before James took John’s mouth on his in a soft, slow, melting kiss._

_Gunfire was much closer now and they both broke the kiss at the sound of it, each man lost to the other’s stare. Bond found his voice first: “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He gave John a stroke on the cheek with his fingertips and turned toward the entrance._

_“No,” said John. Bond turned and saw pure determination in the doctor’s eyes. He felt his cock twitch at the boldness John was showing him._

_After a moment’s consideration: “Fine,” said Bond, “Shall we go together then?” A small smile played on his lips._

_“After you, Commander,” said John, lifting his sidearm up, preparing to charge the enemy._

 

~080~

 

Bond awoke the next morning with the memories of Maiwand stuck in his head. Those tense first moments of the battle were burned into his brain. Not only had it been the first mass carnage he had seen in a while, it had also been their first kiss. And John hadn’t stopped him at all. It was like a door opening.

He whistled as he nodded to Moneypenny and made his way into M’s office.

“Well that was a cock up,” said M slapping the mission dossier on his desk roughly.

“All is not lost,” said Bond smoothly.

“Oh?” said M. “Then please enlighten me.” He gestured for Bond to take a seat and he did.

After seating himself, Bond picked a stray piece of lint from his trouser leg casually and said: “The drop site was not compromised. We can still meet there and no one will be the wiser.”

“But we lost Hans last night,” said M. “How the hell are you going to make an excuse for the absence of the actual broker of the deal?” He was pacing in front of his window now. That was never a good sign.

“We don’t need Hans anymore,” said Bond. “I can meet with them. They trust me now. I’ll just say Hans was called out of town: urgent business in Kazakhstan.”

“And what about the bogey?” asked a warm voice from behind 007’s head.

“Q,” said Bond. He didn’t look around. He simply smiled and waited for the boffin to say what he expected him to say

“…and thank you for destroying yet another extremely expensive earwig, Bond…”

and there it was.

“I like to think that I keep all the earwig manufacturers all over the world gainfully employed, Q,” said Bond.

“How very generous,” said Q sardonically. He came around to M’s desk and leaned against it as if he did it every day. “So what about the bogey?”

“What are you talking about?” said Bond, taking in yet another sweater vest on the man’s thin frame. If they didn’t suit Q to a tee, he would see it as his duty to the country to go to Q’s house and burn every last one of them.

“Yes,” said M. “What are you talking about? What happened? Have we been compromised?”

Q crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side. Bond thought he looked adorable as the scolding headmaster. No, better still: headboy.  “Yes, 007,” said Q. “Do tell us: has this mission been compromised? Because I distinctly remember the bogey calling you “James”. Please tell me that I was hearing things.”

“What?” said M. “Why am I only hearing about this now?

“This was just after you left Q Branch, sir,” said Q. “I wanted to see if I could get a real time satellite image of the bogey and run his face through our facial recognition software.”

“And?” said M, taking a seat behind his desk. Q took the other visitor’s chair so that he could easily address both M and Bond.

“Captain John Watson, MD, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, RAMC, retired,” said Q. “Clean record. Honorable discharge. Wounded in battle. And that’s all I have for now as the information was just spat out of our databases when I was on my way here in the lift.”

“An ex-Army man who knows you on sight in the same alley as you, Bond?” queried M. “What are the chances?”

“Pretty damn good, I guess,” said Bond. “He just happened to be passing by.”

“Judging from the conversation I heard – albeit faintly,” said Q. “He seemed to have been armed.”

Bond was silent for a moment. Slowly he said: “He had a weapon, yes.”

M stood behind his desk and leaned forward on his hands. “That’s it,” he said. “The two of you are going to sort out this Captain Watson business once and for all. And Bond: if need be, you will eliminate him. We can’t afford to drop this ball.”

“M,” said Bond, sitting up in his chair, alarmed for the first time. “I really don’t think it’ll come to that. He’s a good man. True blue. Never one better. We could debrief him on the situation. Bring him in. As I recall, he’s pretty good in a fight.”

“And you know this for certain?” asked Q. “You said yourself that you hadn’t seen him in years.”

“Listening that long, were you, Q?” asked Bond, a bit put out. “You know, that’s why I can’t take care of my earwigs: too many ears in the mix.”

“Communication devices are for just that: communication!” said Q. He huffed a frustrated breath and looked to M who just glared at the two of them like an angry father with two unruly boys.

“Right,” said M. “Get out, the both of you. Solve this Watson problem,” Here he looked pointedly at Q: “Either with a debriefing…” and then his gaze shifted to Bond: “Or with a bullet.”

 

~080~

 

Q sipped on some plain water as he watched the composite image of Dr. John Watson, MD swim into view on his monitor in his private office. God, he was actually quite cute: deep blue eyes, gentle smile. Q shook his head. He was a witness to James and John meeting up again since all that time had passed. James had genuine happiness in his voice, no… affection. He cared about John.

Why? What happened between them? Q could only figure that they were former lovers. But how in hell did they meet? It had to have been a mission. Q dug through his files on Bond and discovered an assignment in Afghanistan about three years ago. The actual mission files were sealed, but Watson’s weren’t.

Q matched up the time and found that they were both in Afghanistan at the same time. Q glanced over the dateline of the time of the actual mission. It coincided with the terrible mess at Maiwand.

Jesus, were both of them there? There was no way to know for sure without asking either man. But that’s impossible. That battle – more akin to a massacre – only saw a 15% survival rate. And that was before the trek to Kandahar: fifty miles of desert to cross with no rations to speak of, little-to-no water… It was a miracle that any man survived, never mind Bond and Watson.

Fucking hell. Q stared off into the middle distance, his bottled water paused before his lips. He caught himself and drank the rest of the container down, tossing the bottle in the bin. Q tapped a few more keys and brought up an image of Bond near that mission date. He was in camp fatigues and deeply tanned. Q fought back a bit of jealousy at that; his skin was always too fair for sun.

A flash of memory jarred him: Bond handing him back a radio from one of his missions. At the time, Q was simply grateful to get anything back from Bond mission-wise, but as he sat there thinking of it, Bond’s skin and his made a lovely contrast.

He had often thought about Bond, but usually in a purely practical sense: he was, after all, just one more of MI6’s weapons to be used and put away until his next use. But after considering the possibility that a hell like Maiwand could have possibly rendered Bond K.I.A. – Jesus.

He felt himself get hard just considering the man. He usually ignored that sort of thing when Bond walked in a room, but in the back of his mind it would bother him -- especially when he was alone at night. He didn’t want to think of himself as getting emotionally involved with an agent, least of all a double-oh. But here it was again and Q couldn’t let it go. The thought of ever losing Bond was… uncomfortable.

He rose awkwardly and went to his door and bolted it. It was late, no one was about, but if he was going to have a wank in his office, he damn sure wasn’t going to do it with the door open. He walked back to his desk and took himself in hand, Bond’s picture dominating his monitor: the tanned skin, eyes as blue as open skies, crooked crafty smile, camouflage shirt… and oh God: dog tags.

Suddenly in his mind’s eye, Bond was above him, thrusting himself deep inside Q while those cool tags were teasing Q’s chest. Q slowly stroked himself to climax, hearing his own breath panting, imagining Bond’s breath on his skin, licking his sweat, sucking on his kiss, and fuck yes, the pressure in his arse with every thrust home.

Yes, James… please. Don’t stop. Cum for me, James. Please.

Q’s ejaculate came out thickly, coating his hand and his dick. He rested for a moment to catch his stuttering breath and, once controlled, cleaned himself off efficiently enough with tissues.

Q gazed at Bond’s picture overlong. He didn’t want Bond to get to know Watson again. Q shook his head. No, it couldn’t happen anyway, he thought. Bond is Bond and can never have a normal life. Q was about the only person who could ever deal with Bond. No civilian, former military or no, could ever keep up with James bloody Bond.

Q tapped again at the keyboard and brought up Watson’s arrest records: one ASBO. Seriously? His Army files contained nothing unusual. His record with the NHS seemed worry-free. But Q sat back in his chair and whistled when he checked Watson’s financials. Now THAT figure was pretty large for an Army pensioner who doctored on the side.

Who the hell was John Watson?

 

~080~

 

There wasn’t much to do between now and the next brokered meet up in ten days, so Bond padded uselessly around his flat. Of mementoes, he had but a few, most of them scattered about in various corners. Bond kept one thing from his mission to Maiwand in a place of honor on a shelf in his bedroom: a box containing a single bullet.

He sat on the edge of his bed and carefully opened the carved wooden box. It wasn’t big enough to house more than the single object it contained. But Bond treated it like the Ark of the Covenant. It wasn’t much of a reminder, but it was enough.

Flashes came to him of that bullet and John holding it up to his face so he could see it. He placed it toward his face and Bond tasted the metal of it as he bit down. He couldn’t really hear very well because of some vague pounding noise and it was only later he realized that the noise he was hearing was his own blood in his ears. Then came the pain and Bond held a hand to his side with the recollection. It was necessary for his survival but it hurt like a bitch.

Bond closed the box and placed it on his bedside table. He lay back on the mattress and considered hunting John down on his own in order to take him to dinner that night, but he second-guessed himself and changed his mind. So much water under the bridge in what, three years? Bond could still remember the madness of that day and the misery of the days that followed. There was no reprieve for almost a month. But the first day was the worst.

_Bond had been in his share of firefights throughout his career. He had seen death before. But he had never witnessed carnage on this scale. And he had never been wearing the same uniform as most of the dead that surrounded him._

_The only thing that kept him grounded was John. James remembered him moving from body to body, checking pulses, estimating damage, saying an odd prayer or two. He was fucking fearless about checking the enemy dead and wounded. Any one of them could easily have had a bomb strapped to them, but John pressed on, dodging this bullet and that attacker, James covering him during the worst of it._

_Then James was hit. He wasn’t doing anything but taking another pot-shot at an errant Afghani when he felt the cold sting at his side. He must have cried out, because he knew John was too focused on his work to notice him fall. Instantly John was over him and pressing a gauze-covered hand over the open wound. It was superficial, having just skirted his ribs, but bleeding profusely and if the bleeding wasn’t stopped soon, he would lose consciousness and die. Of course, Bond knew all of that. John not only knew it: he had seen it happen._

_Two Indian soldiers and John carried Bond back to the cave. It was there that he was given the bullet and told to be still. It was an old remedy, but one that did the trick. A butane torch was used to heat up a steel rod. It was this that was applied to his wound and the acrid smell of burning flesh filled the cave instantly – along with James’ scream of pain._

Bond woke up covered in sweat. It was almost three in the morning and he didn’t remember going to sleep, but he must have. The scream of pain he last remembered was still stuck in his throat and he rubbed it soothingly. He rose and made his way to the kitchen for a cuppa.

He wasn’t any good at boredom. As he sipped his steaming cup he stared idly down at sleeping London. He wondered where John was and if he was safe. Of course he was. Why would he be so instinctively protective of a man he knew to be completely capable of handling himself in any situation? The man had nerves of fucking titanium.

He finished his tea and as he washed out the cup, he thought of Q. Now there was a man who needed looking after. Part of Bond wanted to care for Q, the other part wanted to take the man across his knee… Bond shook his head and laughed. As if Q would put up with any of that crap. The genius was too busy acting like a mother hen to bother sexually with the likes of Bond. Besides, Bond wasn’t even too sure that Q liked sex.

Shrugging to himself, he went back to bed. He stripped completely down and got beneath the covers. He was still a bit wired from his dream and his brain shifted from spanking Q to slapping John’s naked arse and the crafty smirk he would probably get for that.

Oh that smirk: cocky, smarmy, and fucking kissable. Bond recalled John’s penchant for nibbling at his bottom lip when they kissed and Bond got semi-hard at the thought. He rolled over and retrieved a small bottle of lube from the drawer of the table. Slicking up his hand, he rolled it smoothly over his balls and back up his shaft, flicking out his thumb over his slit before heading back down again. Broad strokes became steady and focused as he remembered fucking John once they had gotten back to civilization – and just before they had shipped John home.

They had needed to clean his wound and John wanted to take a shower. The base showers weren’t all that grand, but at least theirs was private. They each managed to get soap in the other’s eye and laughed at each of their predicaments. Though wounded, John was still able to hold his own as he and James playfully shoved for dominance inside the stall. But in the end, the good doctor submitted to James’ overpowering body and kiss. They frotted against one another for twenty minutes, neither one touching the other’s cock to help; it was just their body weight that caused the friction and it made it slow and delicious as their dicks rubbed and flipped over one another.

When John was close he tried to warn James and James assured him that he was right there with him. They came together, eyes locked on each other, enjoying the last intimate moment either man would get from the other. For all they knew, it would be the last time they saw each other.

James pulled at his cock with the desperation of all that time lost between them. James could have stayed in touch, but he didn’t and he wanted to make it up to John. He wanted to thank John for saving his life and for brightening it in a moment of utter shit falling down around them. He pumped faster and faster with his desire to see the fire in John’s eyes once more as he straddled him, James’s thick cock disappearing slowly into John’s flesh.

James cried out John ‘s name as he came – just as he did that last time.

After cleaning himself up and catching his breath, James leaned back against the pillows and dozed off. His last thought was wondering what John was going to wear for their date.


	3. Chapter 3

“You don’t want to tell me, so either you don’t like her very much yet or you like her entirely too much and since you’re not the type to actually date a woman just for a quick shag (not that your type of woman would tolerate that behavior from you or any man), I’m willing to go with “you like her too much”. You want to protect her from what? From me? You’re afraid that I’ll ruin it for you? It’s not my fault that all the others were boring, John. I mean: a schoolteacher? Seriously? And what does this one do? Hand-raise kittens? Feed the homeless? No. You know I’d never object to that. The homeless are invaluable to me, John.”

Sherlock was going a mile a minute and John had just about had enough. This was hour nine of his grilling interrogation and deductive extrapolation of what facts he could glean about John’s date. Hour nine, but day five; John was sorely tempted to chin his flat mate. The mere fact that he hadn’t by now spoke volumes about how patient John actually was. He sat in his overstuffed chair and flexed his left hand in annoyance. Sherlock was behind him pacing and ranting away.

“So if she’s some sort of civil-working saint, you’re afraid to bring her ‘round because-“

“That’s enough, Sherlock,” said John firmly. To his great surprise, Sherlock actually shut up. “It’s none of your business who I date or when. You’re my flat mate, not my mother.” He rose to his feet and faced Sherlock’s withering gaze. “So if you don’t mind, I’ll ask you to kindly fuck off.” With a nod, John put on his coat and walked out of the flat.

He aimed his feet toward Regent’s Park and wandered about the paths for the better part of a couple of hours, praying that Lestrade would call or text in the meantime to give Sherlock something to distract him. He sat on a bench and rubbed his face wearily. Sherlock was the best thing that had ever happened to him after he was sent home. Sherlock gave him purpose, focus. Sherlock gave him excitement and adventure, adrenalin rushes wrapped in mystery. It was so fucking addictive.

John laughed at that thought: here he was, a soldier addicted to a former addict and his rollercoaster career. And he loved him. If he was honest, he really did love Sherlock. He was a brother-in-arms, a compatriot. He read about “unit cohesion” back in the day. He supposed that’s what he felt for Sherlock: he was bound to him through battle.

An image of a very dapper Bond swam into John’s mind. Unit cohesion, indeed.

Bond was a different matter entirely. They were wary strangers at first, no one knowing what purpose Bond served among the Army foot soldiers, and no one asking. But then James had spent more and more time in the cool confines of the cave with John and they found that they shared a love of gambling and women. They swapped stories: Bond being very general in his details of how he would meet the women he did and John not asking too many questions. It was out of respect more than anything.

John could see that Bond had seen a few wars in his day. Battle leaves scars on a man – and on more than just his flesh. A compassionate side to John wanted to care for James. He seemed an old war dog in need of a warm hearth. Recalling the man he met at the pub, John thought he looked more polished, but still the same old war dog underneath it all. It warmed his heart to know that James was still the same person after all this time and he let himself believe that in two days he would be able to pick up where they had left off.

He was unaware of it at the time, but upon reflection John realized that he was nervous that night they met. He didn’t know what to expect from James. He knew the man was grateful, but he thought that he would have more tact than to gush about it. No. That wasn’t James. He was stoic, reserved; the same as John when it came to sentiment. They both felt memories of the past strongly, but they kept their emotion tamped down. It just wasn’t done to get all blubbery. No one wanted to be THAT guy.

John picked himself up from the bench and walked toward a men’s shop he had been eyeing for some time. James was dressed so splendidly last week and all he was doing was having a phone conversation in a dark alley with a weapon in his hand. If he could look that good in such a strange place, there was nothing in John’s wardrobe that could compete once they were on their own and out to dinner.

The bespoke suits looked marvelous and John thought that just this once his budget could stand to take a hit for something as worthwhile as a date with a former lover like James Bond. Besides, he didn’t feel like looking like a Benny next to the man. John looked down at his own comfortable clothing and sighed. Yeah, he would have to get something nice. Not top-shelf, perhaps, but at the very least “James Bond alleyway” chic.

He came home with the suit and prayed that Sherlock wasn’t home to spot him. This would bring about all sorts of new deductions regarding his “date” on Friday. John was not so fortunate.

“A new suit,” said Sherlock as John attempted to mount the stairs to his rooms above. “And from the shop near Regent’s. You should have told me, John. I could have put you in touch with my tailor.”

“I wanted the suit to fit, Sherlock,” John said over his shoulder. “Not strangle me.” He continued up the stairs as Sherlock stared at his back.

“She must be very special to have warranted the purchase of a new suit,” said Sherlock. “An ex-lover then?”

 John froze at the top of the stairs. “Fuck off, Sherlock,” he said. He never turned to face him. Had he done, Sherlock could have probably deduced everything but James’ name.

A jealous part of John’s heart didn’t want Sherlock saying James’ name. He wasn’t worthy to.

 

~080~

 

“It’s not that doctor again, is it?” said Sherlock.

There was only thirty minutes to go before John had to meet James and he was straightening his new tie in the sitting room mirror. John had learned to ignore Sherlock in the past two days; it was the only thing that was saving his sanity. Sherlock really didn’t have an off-switch. It was aggravating.

“Please tell me that it isn’t- No. it wouldn’t be Sarah. She hates me. And she thinks your life is a mess. She’s not the type of woman to- Is she that type of woman, John? Perhaps she’s desperate. John? Is she desperate?” asked Sherlock. He was standing behind John and addressing his reflection.

John looked up at Sherlock. It wasn’t as if Sherlock wouldn’t figure out where he’d been and who he’d been with ten seconds after he got home, so he heaved a sigh and said, “Sherlock. It’s not Sarah. In fact, it’s not any woman.”

“That doesn’t make sense, John,” said Sherlock waving an errant hand in front of his face. “You have a new suit. It’s a former lover; that much I do know. You’re looking very smart, so it must be a posh date at a posh restaurant which indicates high-maintenance – and let’s face it, John: you prefer high-maintenance women…”

John waited for the penny to drop.

“… It’s not a job interview; it’s seven o’clock at night. NHS hours don’t extend past four-thirty these days. And if it’s not with a woman…” said Sherlock, still trying to work it out, fingers steepled under his chin. Suddenly his face lit up. “OH! OH! Stupid…” He glared at John. “How could you?!”

John was confused. “How could I what, Sherlock?”

“You bastard,” said Sherlock. “You utter bastard. Of course, I should have suspected as much what with your deafening silence about your date all week.” He turned and looked sharply at John, head tilted, accusatory. “It’s not an actual “date” though, is it? I mean,” he huffed out a laugh, “I mean not with HIM, surely!”

“What do you mean, “not a date”, Sherlock?” said John. Perhaps Sherlock was right. Perhaps it wasn’t a date. Perhaps it was just two old friends catching up on old times. John looked into the mirror, disappointment haunting his eyes. He caught himself. He was actually disappointed, wasn’t he? Fucking hell. He must be past the point of desperation.

“I mean there’s no way you could be looking forward to-“ started Sherlock, his joyous viciousness cut short by the look in John’s face in the reflection of the mirror. “Oh… I see. You were looking forward to it.” Penitent and confused, Sherlock sat on the sofa. “I am sorry, John.”

John caught Sherlock’s face in the mirror and softened his sadness into a smile. “It’s alright, Sherlock,” he said softly. “It’s nothing.”

“No,” said Sherlock, standing and striding toward John. He stood in front of him and took him by the shoulders, leaning in close. “It’s not alright. Only-- I can’t understand how you could look forward to…” Sherlock shook his head to clear it. “No. The facts don’t match up. You insist that you’re straight and yet  you’re looking forward to a “date” with a member of the male sex. Plus… considering whom your meeting… No. It makes no sense.”

“Who am I meeting, Sherlock?” said John. He felt his heart move to his throat. There’s no way Sherlock could have figured out about James. No. Fucking. Way. And yet… this was Sherlock Holmes. He knew everything.

“Hmm?” said Sherlock, distracted by his own thoughts. His head had been bowed, but he still held onto John’s shoulders, his hands solid against the fine cloth of John’s bespoke suit. He looked confused. “Well it’s Mycroft, of course! He’s the only possibility. Although I must admit: I had no idea you two were former lovers.”

John began to giggle, his nerves raw with the building tension from the past week. His giggle grew into a chuckle, then to a laugh, and finally to a full-on side-splitting roll of laughter. Tears welled up in his eyes and as he wiped them away, he choked out: “Y-you think… Y-you really thought… Me? And Mycroft? MYCROFT? A-are you joking, Sherlock?!”

Sherlock stood there confused and angry. In fact, he was getting angrier with every second of John’s laughter. “That’s what the facts told me, John,” he insisted as John turned away from him, gripping his sides. “Stop laughing and tell me what’s going on!”

John stopped his laughter immediately. He turned to Sherlock in all seriousness and said: “You know all those times when you’re rambling and going on and on about this fact and that deduction to the point where everyone around you stares at you in confusion because you see something that they don’t?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock.

“You know how you always ask: “What’s it like in those funny brains of yours?” when you see us staring at you like so many chimps in the zoo?” said John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock

“Well…” said John, grabbing his coat. “Now you know. Goodnight, Sherlock.” He wiped the last vestige of hysterical tears from his eyes, got in a cab, and made off for the restaurant where a no-doubt dashing James Bond awaited him.

 

~080~

 

Sherlock watched the cab leave and swiped a hand at the curtains in frustration. He threw himself in his chair and stared at John’s empty chair. It wasn’t like him to be wrong. He went over the facts again and again and again, until his fingers itched for his violin and his brain hurt.

He shut his eyes tightly and was surprised when he felt tears fall. He wiped them and looked at the wet on his hand. He was crying. He was actually crying over John. What in the fucking hell was this?

Normally, he’d lock something like this away, shut out the emotion and the sentiment out of habit, but this was John. His John. And his John was meeting with some strange _man_ on a _date_? It was too much to bear.

He wasn’t special to John like this man must be. There was a connection there that- Oh… truly stupid boy. He’s ex-Army. Of course. John’s military experience. Had to be. Oh fucking hell… how could he be that short-sighted?

And there again, Sherlock was brought up short. He couldn’t compete with the likes of anyone from John’s military past. Combat brought men together in uncertain times. And John was sentimental. He was looking forward to seeing this man again. They had to have had a rough time if he was that eager.

Sherlock wondered who he was and if he were handsome. He looked at his own gangly limbs and side-eyed a stare at his reflection in the sitting room mirror. He was all knees and elbows, entirely too thin, entirely too pale. His nose was a bit big, his eyes oddly-shaped. His hair was a mess of curls, unkempt and disheveled. No wonder John didn’t find him attractive.

Sherlock shook his head. He had never given a toss about his looks before. He honestly didn’t care what people thought of him -- that is to say, everyone except John. Things were different with John. He was a friend. Something he hadn’t had since Victor. John was strong and clever (for John) and capable in a fight. He was ruthless in his pursuit of what was right and doggedly determined to keep Sherlock on the straight and narrow.

Sherlock had to admit that he liked John’s brand of discipline. It was even-handed and secure. Rather than feeling like he was being smothered, John helped curb Sherlock’s more erratic tendencies which allowed him to focus on whatever problem there was at hand. He felt more free with John’s collar of behavior around his neck than he ever would with anyone else.

So what had Sherlock done to repay such an amazing and rare individual? Drive him off. Make him insane with probing questions that Sherlock knew were inappropriate. And all out of boredom.

John’s laughter rang in Sherlock’s ears. John was happy that Sherlock didn’t figure this out. He was actually pleased that he had managed to fool him. But, Sherlock noted, instead of being angry or irritated by it – which he was – he was more heartbroken that John was happy. John was actually nervous about this date. And he was terrified that Sherlock would find a way to invade it. And when all his attempts failed, John was relieved.

Sherlock realized for the first time that John didn’t want him seeing this part of his life.

It had naught to do with the homosexual implications of the matter. The truth was that Sherlock was not welcome to share in this new (old) facet of John’s life. He never spoke about the battles he was in. Lord knows why. Too haunted, Sherlock supposed. But John had seen the same at the crime scenes he went to with Sherlock, so what’s the big deal? There had to have been something big that happened to cause this type of a shut-down in John. Sherlock supposed that an hour on the computer would give him all the answers that he needed about John’s military service, but he really couldn’t be arsed.

The bigger problem Sherlock faced was that he needed John’s attention back. Without it, Sherlock’s life was empty: a performer playing to an empty house on a dark stage. But John was more than just an audience. He was a stage manager, a box office salesman, an orchestra leader. He was the light of the follow spot high in the rafters. He was everything Sherlock needed. And now he was gone. Gone off with another man – a stranger to Sherlock – to have… what?  Dinner? Share a kiss goodnight? Sex?

Sherlock wanted to know who this man was. But if he showed up at the restaurant, John would be cross. Very cross. The “I’m not speaking to you for six weeks” kind of cross. Perhaps longer. Perhaps he would feel so strongly that he would move out. Sherlock’s stomach twisted at the thought.

Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck and lay on the sofa, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He had to figure out how to get John back. Of course, that all depended on how the evening went for John. If he came home weary, Sherlock wouldn’t do a thing. He would just smile to himself once John got upstairs and perhaps start on another round of experiments. He might even hum a bit of Verdi to himself.

And if John came home happy. Or… didn’t come home until tomorrow…

Drastic measures then. Sherlock imagined the most ideal scenario:

_John comes up the stairs two at a time, smiling. Sherlock asks how it went, knowing perfectly well that he’s been shagging, and John regales him with an overview of the previous night’s events. Sherlock slowly comes closer to John, getting in his face, until John halts his speech and stares back at Sherlock. Sherlock murmurs: “I missed you, John.” and kisses him on the mouth._

Sherlock figured John would appreciate a forceful kiss, with no tongue at first. He shifted his weight on the sofa as the thought of kissing John caused heat to build in his groin. This reaction wasn’t new. He’d often fantasized about the men in his life, but until John, it wasn’t half as satisfying. He thought he might lick John’s lips by way of asking permission to taste deeper and when John’s resolve melted at the touch of his tongue, he would open up… and Sherlock closed his eyes and _felt_.

His erection was pushing against his trousers in a distracting way. He unbuckled and unzipped, his silk boxers barely containing his erect member as he imagined grabbing John by his face and his hip as he forced him into the wall on the stair landing. Pressing the length of him against John would be most delicious, Sherlock decided, and added it to the fantasy as he palmed his cock.

He imagined how John would moan and snake his arms around Sherlock’s back as the kiss lingered, light (only tongues touching now, sliding, tangling) and then deeper, diving down tasting more thoroughly the flavor of John. Hips would undulate and grind. Breath would become stuttered. Fingers would grasp tightly, practically bruising. This is what they had been waiting for: a kiss that would spark a flame to life.

Sherlock imagined breaking the kiss and looking into the eyes of a confused and debauched John as he apologized for his ill behavior. “I never want you to leave me, John,” he would say as he dropped to his knees and huffed a breath across John’s hardness.

Sherlock would hear a thump above him and know that John had thrown his head back against the wall in his passion. It would only take a moment to get John’s trousers and pants open to reveal his cock: thick and not overlong, perhaps just a bit curved, glans wet with precum. Tentatively Sherlock would lick at the tip, tasting the pre-ejaculate, memorizing the taste, John’s reaction, everything.

Sherlock brought his cock out at this thought and began to stroke himself off as his mental picture developed and he swallowed down John as far as he could. He imagined John would thrust into his mouth reflexively, curling his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, not caring that it was unruly. Sherlock would bury his nose in John’s pubic hair and John wouldn’t care if it were a tad too big for his face. He would look down at Sherlock in amazement as Sherlock slowly pulled off with just the right amount of suction, his thin cheeks hollowing out further, and John wouldn’t see him as too thin. He would look into John’s eyes with lust and want and John wouldn’t care about their odd shape. John would only be feeling what Sherlock was doing to him, what he’s always wanted Sherlock to do to him, and it would be fucking glorious.

Tongue flicking around the glans and at the frenulum, Sherlock would note each breath stutter and moan, each flex of his hand in his hair and every single epithet John could emit. Sherlock’s own hand was pumping along his shaft with the force of the fantasy and soon enough his hips joined the chorus, thrusting upward into his fist as his brain conjured up thoughts of sucking and licking and moaning around John’s cock. Sherlock felt his balls tighten and knew he was seconds from cumming.

In his fantasy, he cupped John’s balls, letting a stray fingertip cross his hole. That was enough for John to cum hard into Sherlock’s mouth and a twisted side of him imagined John losing all control and face fucking him as he came, thrusting deep down his throat and saying things like: “Fuck yes, Sherlock. Take it. Take it all, you cocksucker. God damn it, yes! Fuck yes! Take it! AH!”

Sherlock’s hand was coated with sperm and he kept pumping, teasing the last of his ejaculate from his body, willing the orgasm not to end. Soon enough though, all Sherlock was left with was a filthy shirt and pants, a dirty hand, a sweaty brow, and an empty flat.

As he laid there and caught his breath, he realized that he was terribly afraid that John wouldn’t come home tonight. He felt himself crying again.

Damn it.


	4. Chapter 4

The cab ride from 221B was full of jovial good humor over Sherlock’s misinterpretation of the facts, but reality crawled up on him quickly. By the time the fifteen minute trip was over, John had a pretty good case of nerves going. What was he doing here? And was this a date? Should he get his hopes that high? It had been years since James and he had been together. Their companionability was still there, but what about the other stuff, the deeper connection they wound up sharing? Was that still intact? Was it even necessary anymore?

 

Maybe he’s married now, thought John as he paid the cabby. Perhaps he’s got kids and a dog and a mortgage. But if he did would he really have been standing there in a darkened alley way at an ungodly hour with a weapon in his hand? No father he knew would do it, save a police officer.

 

Was Bond in law enforcement now? He did say something about shipping, but perhaps that was a front, part of his cover. John shrugged to himself, figuring that something of Sherlock might be rubbing off on him. If he was a cop, most likely he was undercover. That job would suit James down to the ground: danger, intrigue, spotting the cheat, picking up on a suspect’s lies. Yeah, that was James all over. John gave his name to the maître d’ and followed him to a back table.

 

The place was posh alright. Each table had its own private waiter who stood off to the side until they were called. All he heard as he passed through the dining room were patrons ordering in French. As soon as John was brought around to where James was waiting and he caught sight of him, his heart skipped a beat. Jesus. All azure eyes and tanned skin, Bond looked perfect and, as John had suspected, flawless in a bespoke suit that had to have cost him the price of a luxury car. Suddenly John felt grateful that he had purchased a new suit for the occasion. He straightened his tie nervously before shaking James’ hand.

 

“Good to see you again, John,” said Bond. His voice wasn’t the liquid sex that Sherlock’s was, but it was smooth and comforting. Immediately, John felt at ease.

John smiled at James. “I’m glad you’re glad,” came out of his mouth and he cringed inwardly. You fucking berk, John. What the hell was that? “I mean, good to see you too,” he added awkwardly.

James smiled politely and picked up their menus, handing it to the waiter. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of ordering for the both of us. I seem to recall a certain weakness for duck on your part?” he asked. Bond remembered a lot of things about John. It was wonderful to see him again. And his suit really made him look polished. Had it not been for his injury, Bond was fairly certain that John would have made a good MI6 agent, not a double-oh, but an agent nonetheless.

God, he was charming. “Yes,” said John, more than a bit impressed. “You remembered.”

“Talking of duck,” said James. “I never quite recovered from that ancient bottle of cold duck we found in that Kandahar home.” They should have never drunk that. They were sick for three days. Of course, that could have also been the result of the rampant dysentery.

John laughed. “My god…“ He said, “I’d forgotten all about that! And the fried chicken? Do you remember?”

“Jesus,” said James, a distasteful look on his face, recalling the debilitating bouts of stomach pain. “I was trying to forget about that. I think I may have just gone off my caviar.”

“Caviar?” said John. “You’re having caviar?”

“No,” said James with a pause. “I thought we’d have caviar.” It was a bit of a calculated risk on James’ part. He wanted to impress John and, if he were honest, romance the man a little. Something told him that he was severely lacking in the romance department.

John stared at James in wonder. This was not any sort of casual dinner with a friend. This was a posh restaurant – a really posh one -- where the waiters were noiseless and discreet, the napkin rings were probably silver, and the wine list was the size of Harrod’s Christmas catalogue. All that coupled with the fact that the lights were dim, the tealight candles giving a soft glow at the center of the table and that soft classical music was playing from an unseen source. This was a motherfucking date.

Two bottles of wine and a five-course meal later, John was thoroughly enjoying himself. He hadn’t connected on this level with any woman in London he had dated, not even the ones with military service. With James it was like old times. They talked of everything about John’s life before the war, getting to know one another all over again. James was as forthcoming as ever about his past – which is to say that he dodged every direct question with an indirect answer. John eventually found out that his parents had died in a climbing accident when he was a kid. Tragic.

“So what do you do now?” asked John, pouring out the last of the second bottle into his glass. He wasn’t that strongly affected by drink and neither was Bond. John always thought that a drinking contest between the two of them would have probably resulted in a tie.

“I told you: international shipping,” said Bond and he presented John with his card. M was going to kill him for keeping up the pretense, but Bond wanted to see John’s reaction again.

John looked at it and said: “Do you like it?” He was genuinely curious. All his hopes of Bond being an undercover detective were slowly eroding away.

“It keeps me on my toes,” said Bond. Despite M’s orders he was having difficulty leveling with John. He didn’t know why, but everything in James was screaming out to protect the man, to not tell him what he did for a living. But that was absurd.

There was a pause in the conversation for the first time and the air was pregnant with all the questions John wanted to ask. Finally he decided on the direct route: “Are you an undercover cop?”

Bond paused. “No,” he answered carefully. “Why?”

“Well,” said John, waving a hand about, “all this bollocks about international shipping. It’s a load of crap, isn’t it? I mean, look at you: you’re dressed to the fucking nines. You can afford a place like this. And then-“ he leaned in close to whisper, “I caught you in an alley with a gun in your hand, remember! And you expect me to just ignore all that and choke down that you’re in international shipping? Get the fuck out of here, mate. Pull the fucking other one.”

Bond favored John with a charming smirk. The man was the same as ever, bless him. “Alright,” he said. “You got me. But I can’t talk here. Can I give you a lift home? My car’s not far.”

“If it solves the mystery and you’re not going to try and sell me another load of bollocks,” said John, taking another swig of the wine before getting up, “then I’m all for it."

James chuckled. “No,” he said. “It’ll be the truth from here on out. I swear.”

The car was a racy black affair with black and tan leather interior. John couldn’t help but let out a low whistle when they got in. “You really aren’t a copper, are you?” He was trying to mentally picture Lestrade purchasing one of these with his salary. He couldn’t do it.

“I told you, no,” said James, starting the engine. He turned to John and said: “I’m an agent for MI6.”

John laughed at first, but Bond’s expression never wavered. This wasn’t a lie. “When did you…?”

“I’ve been an agent for years, mate,” said Bond.

“Before Maiwand?” asked John. It would explain a lot. James nodded. “I see,” said John.

“Here,” said James, handing John a gift. It was small and rectangular with a bit of heft to it. John unwrapped it carefully. He stared at the small intricately carved wooden box for a few minutes before looking at James with a question in his eyes. “Been meaning to give it to you all night. Open it,” he said.

John recognized it as soon as he saw it. He said nothing at first, only held his breath as he ran a fingertip over it. “After all this time,” he muttered. “Is it really?”

“The very same,” said James. “Slipped it into my pocket afterward.” They were silent for a while, both of them regarding the piece of silver metal set inside its red velvet bed. There was so much to say. There was so much already said.

John couldn’t take it anymore. He leaned over to James, taking him by the back of the neck and kissed him deeply. Fucking hell, he tasted the same. Their tongues touched for a moment here and there, each man not quite sure of the other’s feelings, testing each other out. And then John bit at James’ lip and James let out a moan. The box snapped closed and got shoved on the dashboard as both men wrapped their arms around each other as much as the car would allow. Sucking kisses made lascivious noises as each man struggled to get closer to the other.

James had a moment of sanity as their kissing broke off. He couldn’t do this. Not with John. Not again. He didn’t want John getting too close. He was a civilian now and he couldn’t afford to worry about James. Hell, he couldn’t know where James was half the time or what he was up to. It broke James’ heart, but he had to nip this in the bud. He released John slowly and handed the box to him. “It’s yours now,” said James. “I’ve no use for it.”

John looked down at the box, registering James’ meaning, and said softly: “Yeah. The past is the past, eh?” and he settled back in his seat for the short trip to 221B Baker Street. As soon as they were in sight of the door of his flat, John put a hand on James’ arm. “You know,” he said, “I’m not really ready to go home.”

“Flat mate home?” said Bond.

“Most likely,” John muttered.

Without asking, James revved the engine and took off for a different part of London. What the hell are you thinking, James, he asked himself as the car tore its way through the city streets. Was this wise? He had still to ask about what John saw or didn’t see in that alleyway, so there was that as a convenient excuse. He supposed it would have to do.

 

~080~

 

James Bond’s flat was spartan and a bit cold. It didn’t have any of the homey touches that Mrs. Hudson would give, but then, there was no Mrs. Hudson here. John stared up at the industrial piping above their heads. Grey. Everything was grey. The walls were a weak effort of beige to make up for the concrete floors and steel-girded ceiling, but honestly, it was just all grey. There was no personality here, no spark. John sat on a sofa that he was sure would cover his share of the rent at 221B for at least three months. James handed him a whiskey. “Cheers,” he said softly as he continued to look around. “You don’t have a lot of books,” he remarked.

“It isn’t often that I get a chance to read,” said Bond.

“Right,” said John.

“Shall I get down to brass tacks?” said James, taking a seat in a wingback leather chair that John had only ever seen in places like the Diogenes Club. James looked like a king on his throne sitting there.

“What do you mean?” said John, sipping his whiskey. He had never seen a more fuckable man.

“What exactly did you see in that alleyway a week ago?” asked James.

“Just you,” said John. “Why? Are- are your people… I mean, are MI6 after me for something?”

“That depends,” said James. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his own whiskey in his palms. “Are you telling me the truth?”

“Of course!” said John, slightly offended. “Mate, you know me! We’ve seen… Jesus, we’ve been to hell and back and you’re asking me if I’m lying about what I saw?” John shook his head and took another swig of his whiskey. “Unbelievable. You’re fucking unbelievable.” He sat up and placed his glass on the coffee table before him. “If you had let me out at my flat, would you be asking me this?”

“I have to admit, I didn’t want to ask you at all,” said James as he stared down in his glass at the amber liquid. “All I wanted was an evening out with an old friend.” He took a drink. “Bringing you here wasn’t part of the plan.”

“It wasn’t,” said John. It was not a question. There was “a plan”?! John was getting a bit angry.

“Not really, no,” said James. “I didn’t want to show you this side of me, John.”

“What side?” said John. “You mean this place?” John looked around. “I have to say, James, this really isn’t what I pictured for you.” He looked at James now in a new light: he was sad, lonely. And he had little choice in the matter. It was all or quits for Mother England and John could see that James was battle-weary. John knew what that was like – all too well. His anger subsided.

“No?” asked James, bemused.

“I thought your flat would be more… comfortable,” said John. “I realize now that you really don’t live here, do you? You don’t really live anywhere. 

“That’s about it,” said James morosely as he took another sip.

“So… you didn’t want me here because you didn’t want me to see that you’re no one,” said John. “But the thing is, James, you’re paid to be no one. You’re paid to walk into hell – like Maiwand – and do what they tell you to do.” He slid himself closer on the sofa and reached out for James’ knee. “I understand, mate. I do.” James threw a grateful smile at John; of course he got it. He was John.

“And you didn’t see anything else in that alleyway besides me, right?” asked James.

“No, James,” said John with a world-weary sigh. “All I saw was you.” He reached a hand up and placed a finger under James’ down-turned chin, lifting it up. “Just as I do now.”

“John,” said James. “Please.” He didn’t want John to get close. He couldn’t afford to hurt him. John couldn’t know everything like in a real relationship. James couldn’t have a real relationship; not with John, not with anyone. James reached up and took John’s hand. It was softer than he had remembered and James stupidly wondered how it would feel on his skin again. He shut his eyes at the thought 

“James.” The word was spoken so softly that James almost missed it. He opened his eyes and met John’s. They were pleading, understanding, welcoming, lovely.

“John.”

 

~080~

 

They started slowly. They needed it to be.

_Kiss._

_Touch._

_Caress._

_Slip._

_Tongue._

_Fondle._

_Explore._

_Wet._

_Taste._

_Suck._

_Scrape._

_Unbutton._

_Pant._

_Need._

_Lick._

_Flick._

_Fall._

_Writhe._

_Press._

_Bite._

_Moan._

_Sigh._

James lay on top of John pressing the length of himself all along him, feeling every inch of skin he possibly could. They had been there for an hour already, slow exploration of their bodies with fingertips, hands, mouths, and tongues had engorged both of their members and made the friction they were currently experiencing necessary.

“Jesus, James,” said John, his breath stuttering, his voice an octave lower at least.

James had found John’s nipple and was alternating between sucking and flicking as he ground his hips expertly against John’s hardened cock. He brought his head up to kiss him and bit his bottom lip just before plunging in for more. John responded in kind with a smack of his open hand on James’ arse. He grabbed the muscle and massaged it, encouraging his undulations.

“So fucking good, John,” said James around the kiss. “Missed you so much. Needed you.” His speech practically qualified as begging and John ran a hand down James’ arse crack, brushing his hole. James pulled off the kiss at that to moan his pleasure and look down at John with lust-blown eyes. “Oh God, yes,” he said. “Please, John.”

“On your back, sailor,” said John.

James smirked and complied easily. His lube and condoms had been handy for a while now. John rolled on the condom James handed him and slicked up one of his hands with lube. He leaned over Bond, balancing on his right hand while putting a thick finger in him with his left. James’ back arched at the moment the pressure hit him and he rocked his hips to encourage John deeper.

“Oh you are eager, aren’t you, James?” asked John, enjoying every minute of fucking a goddamn MI6 agent.

“Y-yes, John,” said Bond. “Oh God… Please, John. Another.”

Slowly, John drew out and put two in. As he gave time for James to adjust, kissing his face and upper chest pell-mell, his passion getting the best of him. “That’s it. Take it,” said John. “I have so missed seeing you like this, James.” He looked down the length of the man and back up to meet his eyes which were half-lidded and unfocused. “You are fucking gorgeous.”

James’ hips were rocking once again and soon enough, a third finger joined the others. James damn-near came unglued. His hands flew to the mattress and gripped the sheets around them, his back arched, and he burst out: “Fucking God, JOHN!”  John could feel that he was hitting up against James’ prostate and after a few more strokes, pulled out his fingers and lined himself up.

He wanted to face James as they fucked. He needed to see him like that.

Warm and tight, James’ arse swallowed John’s cock and John’s memory flashed for a moment on a warm cot and a cold night on the road to Kandahar. They had to be quiet then. There was no need for that now.

“Fucking Christ, James!” John shouted once he was balls-deep inside the agent. He thrust deeply, steadily, holding James by the back of the neck, propped on his elbows, feeling the man’s legs wrap around his waist and squeeze.

James let out a moan of agreement and pushed his hips up into John’s thrusts. “More, John. God please, more. I- Oh… I needed you so much.”

John didn’t need much more encouragement than that. He began to increase his rhythm, circling his hips and snapping his pelvis every so often just to hear James call out his name. Fucking him was so simple, so perfect.

“James, I’m close,” was all John said.

James nodded and replied: “Me too. Fuck, John. Cum for me. Come on, cum… John. Please.”

They each crested seconds apart from each other, James dick untouched but causing a mess between them. James couldn’t remember the last time he came like that, but oh Christ, it was good.

Sweaty, sex-funky, exhausted, John collapsed onto James and they both caught their breath. Before John could pull out and they could get cleaned up, James said: “Just like old times, eh?” They both laughed.


	5. Chapter 5

It was too early for most humans, but Q was hard at work. Most would say that it was a strong work ethic that drove him. Others would say that he just had no life. The truth was he couldn’t sleep. Ever since this “bogey” Watson turned up, Q had felt a little muddled – quite unlike himself. He would like to say that he didn’t like the look of the man, but that would be lying. If he sat down and admitted it to himself, the simple fact was: he was jealous.

Not just anyone could turn the head of James Bond. But this John Watson, who at the end of Q’s initial probe seemed a singularly ordinary man, managed to do just that and with very little effort. Bond didn’t take assignments lightly. He couldn’t afford to. But you could have knocked Q over with a feather when Bond began pleading Watson’s case in M’s office yesterday.

At first, Q chalked it up to military camaraderie, band of brothers and all that. He felt the same way at MI6. Whenever an agent died in the field, he felt it keenly. Who’s to say he didn’t? But this ran deeper. Bond was pleading to save someone that he hadn’t seen in years. Before this he had never attempted to see him. He had the resources to keep a thing like that going. But he chose to stay away. Why?

Q’s knee-jerk response to that question was that it was because of the job. And perhaps that was it. But this Watson was ex-military! There was no reason to cushion any blow from a man who was no longer active duty and with whom one could meet upon occasion to share a pint and a chat.

Q rose and helped himself to another Earl Grey. Confounding, that’s what this was. Bond was staying away from a man with whom he had shared (possibly) the most harrowing experience in British military history. He sat again at his station and stared at the monitor which displayed every conceivable item of military information on Dr. John Hamish Watson.

He exhaled through his nose in frustration. Something was wrong here between Bond and Watson; he could smell it. A battle or mission was the link, but what was the nature of their relationship? Comrades-in-arms, clearly. But what more?

A small feeling of dread filled Q’s heart. Surely not… Shit. Fucking buggering shit.

 

~080~

 

As the hours passed into dawn, Sherlock knew what he would bear witness to before the door to 221B even opened. He bolted to the window when the car door slammed shut outside, barely managing to focus on the black luxury saloon car that made its way back to the high street. It wasn’t one of Mycroft’s but it was to his taste – if he preferred fast-moving machines.

Sherlock heard John take the steps two at a time, paused at the landing, and then make his way to his own rooms. Sherlock kicked himself for being – what was he being? Frightened? Surely not. Not he. What had he to be frightened of? John was his best friend.

Sherlock went to his rooms to think. He laid there on the bed, fingertips pressed together under his chin and attempted to postulate: what reason would he have to be frightened of John? Rejection. That was the answer. Bugger. He didn’t care what people thought, but John wasn’t “people”. He was a conductor of light, a colleague, a flat mate, a friend and Sherlock had become… used to him.

He had his shortcomings, of course. He wasn’t perfect. He had no stamina for a three-patch problem, but then, he wasn’t the one who was doing all the thinking. On the other hand, he was good in a fight and he served as a social buffer when Sherlock couldn’t be bothered – which was most of the time.

Sherlock sighed. He had to look out for him. That’s what friends do for one another, isn’t it? So this person he was with must therefore be investigated. If for no other reason than to satisfy Sherlock’s need for solving a mystery.

He squirmed himself deeper into the mattress and thought: what were the facts? Fact one: John had sexual intercourse last night with – for lack of a solid corroboration – a man. Fact two: This man was wealthy. His car and the fact that John went out and bought a new suit led to the conclusion that the restaurant they went to was on the high end of posh. And fact three: The individual in question had a former military career and that is where he and John first made acquaintance.

Sherlock needed more data. Overhead he heard John’s shower come on. He was on his feet and up the stairs in a flash – being careful not to make any great noise. Slowly he opened the door and noted John’s clothing from the night before piled neatly in a chair in his room. Sherlock sniffed the suit jacket and smelled John’s cologne and something else. And what’s this? “James Bond, Pimlico Shipping International”, read the business card. Sherlock pocketed it. He sniffed at the shirt. The same cologne was present, but this one mingled with another one. It was a high-end aftershave that John could not only not afford, but wouldn’t even consider purchasing for himself. Something rumbled inside of Sherlock that was akin to an animalistic growl.

He turned to see a small wooden box, lidded and delicately carved – Maori carving, if he could trust his memory. He opened the lid and discovered a single bullet from a military-grade sniper rifle. Lifting it carefully to inspect it, he held it to the light, detecting faint scratches on its surface. What could have made those? They were too uneven to be tool marks.

The shower stopped. Sherlock placed the bullet back in the case, closed the lid, and ran down to the sitting room as quickly and quietly as he could. Two or three paces of the sitting room later and he was strapping on his coat and scarf. He had to find this James Bond.

 

~080~

 

Unauthorized use of satellite surveillance on a private member of the Commonwealth was wrong. Very wrong. And yet, Q found himself rationalizing that final keystroke. If he were any other sort of a man, he would have done it, and without a thought. But as it was, he was far too analytical and it wasn’t so much that he minded breaking the rules, it was more that he minded having the bother of explaining himself afterwards. To his mind, the reason of “Bond is fucking that twat” wouldn’t really hold water when it came time to stand before M and, if he were honest, he wouldn’t accept that as an excuse either. So he sat watching the mouse cursor hover over the final command button on his monitor.

The whole point of Bond re-establishing contact with Watson was to determine whether or not he saw anything in that alleyway. Q had already called up the satellite surveillance of that night and observed that Watson had just missed the majority of the commotion, a ricocheted bullet probably attracting his attention from the street. It was close, but even Q could tell that if he saw anything, it was the coat tails of the mark retreating away from Bond.

So where was the reason for Watson to be monitored now? Q could research his military background with a fine-toothed comb and come up with a bit of gambling as a personal weakness, but judging from the current state of the doctor’s finances – 

And there it was: the doctor’s finances. How perfect! They certainly were suspect and required further investigation as to how he earned his living. Of course, Q would need more than that. He began what he thought might be a fruitless search of the social networking sites and almost instantly the Blog of Dr. John Watson popped up.

Q skimmed through the entries. Sherlock Holmes. Another monitor came to life, pulling up all sorts of information about the self-titled consulting detective. With it came a photograph. Q stopped in his tracks, mesmerized. How fucking elegantly beautiful is he?

Q caught himself and called up video of the Yard congratulating the detective, watching as he placed an ancient-styled deerstalker on his head. Q called up Holmes’ blog and raised an eyebrow. Highly academic. Holmes was clever. Clever and ridiculously good-looking. 143 different types of cigarette ash? Interesting. Deductive reasoning. Inductive reasoning. Observation. This man was a brain with feet. Q’s mouth was suddenly dry. His tea had gone cold. He noticed that his breath was stuttering a bit. Sherlock Holmes and his giant brain were turning him on. Well, that’s just… inconvenient.

 

~080~

 

There were only three real possibilities for the location of the restaurant John could have met this Bond person: John had not wanted to be late for his seven-thirty dinner and had left at a quarter past seven from the flat, which allowed for certain radius for Sherlock’s search. He struck gold on his second try.

The restaurant was closed at that time, but Sherlock went ‘round the back and found the owner receiving a load of fresh veg for that evening’s meals. A few questions later and Sherlock had a description of Bond.

His next move was to check his and John’s local. He could have followed the address on the business card, but it was useless unless he could get impressions from those that had actually seen Bond in order to know how to handle him. Better a third-party set of eyes than no eyes at all. Besides, if Sherlock’s suspicions were correct, the business card wouldn’t lead to anything legitimate.

The pub owner regarded Sherlock with some trepidation, knowing him only those few brief but unpleasant encounters in which he managed to bluntly offend someone in order to drag his poor flat mate off for some God-awful reason. But today the detective’s piercing focus was on the ex-policeman. He answered Sherlock’s questions with caution, but he had to admit that even he didn’t know what Bond was all about and out of a sense of loyalty to one of his more frequent patrons, he opened up quickly and Sherlock got a detailed description of Bond and John’s approach, stay, and departure.

He back-tracked down the street toward 221B, keeping his eyes open for any small trace of anything that would show how they met. The pub-owner had made mention that he suspected Bond of carrying a concealed weapon. That was interesting in and of itself, but it was made alarming when you added John into the mix. Was John aware that Bond may have been armed? Most likely not. If Sherlock was honest, it was disconcerting to him that John was in the man’s company considering how unobservant he could be.

Nothing was presenting itself as he made his way back to the flat, but then, Sherlock hadn’t been approaching his search from the standpoint of an armed man meeting an old friend who was also armed (Sherlock did note that John hadn’t removed his sidearm on that evening). Sherlock ducked into a random alley and scoured the area. The better part of an hour later resulted in the discovery of a fresh bullet embedded into the bricks roughly at the height of a grown man’s shoulder. Over about a foot was the sign of a ricochet. There was also a trace of week-old blood in the brick and on the ground, leading away from Baker Street.

John had returned to 221B that evening rather the worse for drink rather than the adrenaline rush that can stem from handing out manual first-aid treatment to a gunshot wound victim. The only conclusion that could be drawn from this was that Bond was not the victim here but yet, he was involved in some kind of an altercation. The age of the bullet holes, the blood (there had been no rain in the past week to wash anything away), and the late hour and relative calm with which John returned to the flat all led Sherlock to the conclusion that John had heard something of gunfire, went to investigate, his pistol no doubt drawn, and encountered his friend Mr. Bond after the altercation was complete. Sherlock would have smelled gunpowder on John the minute he came close to the man if he had actively participated in a firefight. Furthermore, John must not have witnessed anything overtly illegal; else he wouldn’t have gone out for a pint with the man, mentioning nothing to anyone who could pursue the matter further with a formal investigation.

John was a good man, but Sherlock knew that based on the evidence he had collected that John was playing with fire.

 

~080~

 

Q watched the surveillance trace on John Watson with jealousy boiling in him. A first it was just a feeling of pity for Watson. He observed him entering the men’s store and walking out an hour later with what could only be a new suit. He also saw him exiting his Baker Street flat on the appointed date wearing a new-styled suit. He looked smart in it, but Q couldn’t suppress an indulgent smirk. No chance, mate, he thought. This was James Bond you were dealing with. The man was impossible to truly seduce – especially when you were part of a mission.

They spent several hours in the restaurant, Q’s listening device working quite well to pick up any false affectations in Watson’s voice when he was casually questioned. But the questions never came. It was all reminiscing and Watson’s talk of Sherlock’s cases, his blog, and his flat mate’s peccadilloes. Despite this, Q had to admit it was a bit entertaining to hear a first-hand account of Sherlock from Watson’s intimate perspective. Naked, but for a sheet on Skype? Good Lord.

When Bond ended the dinner without asking a single question – indeed, when Watson was the one to question Bond’s cover story – Q began to get nervous. Watson wasn’t a stupid sheep to be easily led to slaughter. Both Q and Bond valued cunning and intelligence; Q could begin to see Watson’s appeal beyond that of the purely physical. And when he saw Bond drive him home only to drive him away and toward Bond’s flat, Q’s envy rose.

He froze the playback with a violent keystroke and leaned back for a breath. Surely Bond wasn’t taken in by a few old stories and a couple of bottles of wine! He was a professional assassin, for Christ’s sake! The man could figure a way out of any difficult situation. What was this hold Watson had over him? Why, if Q had been there…

Q stood up suddenly. That wasn’t right. He was personalizing this. He rubbed the back of his neck and paced a bit. Bond and he had never been more than colleagues; workmates, not best mates. It’s true that Bond’s missions and the requests that came in during those missions provided Q with an intellectual sparring partner he had grown to respect. And when a mission was completed successfully, he felt a sense of pride over Bond more so than any other agent. Why, it wasn’t that long ago when Q had to remove himself to his private office, close the door, and have a small dance of joy that Bond had not only successfully completed the mission, but managed to bring down a drug cartel all in one. Q grinned at the memory, his fingertips tracing his lips absently.

When Bond came home from that mission and completed his debriefing, he came down to Q Branch, sought Q out, and actually handed back his weapon to Q personally. Q must have given Bond a priceless look of astonishment because in the next moment Bond had leaned over to him and whispered: “Have I been a good boy, Q?”

The same shiver ran down Q’s spine as before. Jesus Christ, that man could charm the birds from the trees. He remembered managing a formal-sounding: “Thank you. That will do, 007,” before turning back to his paperwork. Bond had squeezed his shoulder and chuckled just before walking away. Q hoped no one had seen him turn crimson at the agent’s touch.

He turned back to the monitor and fast-forwarded through until the time when Bond dropped Watson back at his flat. Q was lost in thought as the playback went on. He looked up when he saw a dark figure exiting the door of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes was an imposing figure and Q couldn’t stop himself from tracing the detective as he made his way through the city by taxi. Q noticed that he had stopped at a posh restaurant, questioned the staff briefly, and left, only to go to the very restaurant Bond and Watson had been in. He was there a bit longer and proceeded to travel to a pub very close to Baker Street. He was there for a quarter of an hour or more but left again on foot, walking back to his home. But he never got there. Instead, he back-tracked slowly along the concrete until he ducked into the first alleyway he came across. And then another. And another. He walked those alleys until he was standing in the same alleyway where Bond had his run-in and where Watson discovered him only moments later.

Q observed Sherlock walking to the wall where Q was sure there were traces of a bullet hole or two as well as a high-likelihood of blood trace. He sat stock still in alarm watching the image on the monitor. This was a problem. This was a very big problem.

As his morning surveillance review had worn into the late morning, Q shut himself into his office for a bit of privacy and a break. He needed to think.

He didn’t know quite how Sherlock managed to do it, but he was in possession of details that were highly classified. Q locked his door and rang one of the staff to say that he wasn’t to be disturbed. He sat at his desk, but only for a moment because in the next moment he jumped up and began to pace the floor.

Sherlock Holmes was a liability. Granted, he was a brilliant liability, but a liability all the same. As more facts came to light, the more Q realized that Watson was just the catalyst to all of this. Without his involvement, Bond would not have met him. There would have been no need to re-establish contact. There would have been no reason to raise the detective’s obvious suspicions regarding Bond.

But why would the flat mate care if Watson were out all night with someone? Were they lovers? Nothing Q had researched would have led him to believe that to be true, although the term “confirmed bachelor” had turned up from time to time in regards to Watson. About Holmes personal life, there was nothing save what little Watson had mentioned in his blog. But that didn’t mean that unspoken feelings didn’t exist. It could have been jealousy that drove Holmes to begin investigating Bond.

Q crossed his arms and stood still in the center of the room. That jealousy was going to get Holmes killed.

Q grimaced. There was a trace of empathy that came over him about Sherlock Holmes. He knew exactly how he felt. Why else did Q create a convenient excuse to monitor a private citizen? His excuse was that he wanted to make sure Bond wasn’t protecting a possible leak to their security; Holmes’ excuse was trying to determine just who Bond was and what that meant for Watson. Of course, that was just the lie they were telling themselves, wasn’t it? After all, those “valid reasons” stemmed from irrational emotions on both their parts. Ugh… this was exhausting.

Q lay on his sofa and tried to relax. If Holmes knew anything, he’d have reported it, wouldn’t he? And so far, nothing had come through to MI6 regarding a surprise visit from the local constabulary. So there’s that.

Q closed his eyes and pictured Sherlock. Tall, dark, angular features made him seen ethereal and imposing, like a dark angel. Q could imagine sitting next to him, drinking tea and sympathizing. An errant image flashed in his mind: running a hand through his dark curls, a soothing gesture meant to comfort. Q shook it away. He couldn’t betray Bond, even in his dreams.

He closed his eyes again and another pair of blue eyes smiled at him. Bond probably wouldn’t appreciate the close eye with which Q had been watching his activities, but then, he might expect it. Who knows? He might even see reason if Q explained it to him. He pictured Bond turning away and he grabbed his arm to stop him. Phantom Bond turned back and allowed Q to hold his face in his hands and slowly kiss understanding upon his lips.

Just as he felt James’ hands snake across his hips as the kiss deepened, Q’s fantasy took a left turn: Sherlock showed up. Suddenly there were no clothes involved and each man had taken a side of Q’s neck to suck and lick: Bond at the front, Sherlock from behind.

Q was never more grateful for a lock on his office door. His prick began to harden with the fantasy. He released himself from his clothing and licked his palm. The fantasy continued with both men moving their mouths down Q’s body slowly, each man taking his time with whatever his lips happened to caress: chest, nipples, nape of the neck, between the shoulder blades. Q did what he could to show his appreciation with moans and soft caresses of his own on hair (Bond) and along arms and hands (Holmes). The feel of the two sets of hands gripping him and the lascivious sounds coming from both men caused Q to increase his stroke on himself.

By the time Sherlock’s soft mouth reached the base of his spine, Bond’s stubbled kiss reached Q’s cock. If heaven existed, this would be Q’s bliss forever. Sherlock began to nip and lick at his crack. Bond bit his hip bone and caught precum on his tongue, barely skimming Q’s sensitive glans. And when Sherlock finally buried his face in Q’s arse, pushing a wet tongue firmly inside him and forcing one of Q’s legs over Bond’s shoulder as the agent knelt before him, Bond was swallowing him down with a crafty glint in his his beautiful eyes.

Q cocked his head back and felt his balls tighten. His stroke became erratic and his breath hitched and stuttered. This was so fucking good. Oh, James! God, Sherlock! Jesus Christ, he was going to cum. So close… That’s it, James. Suck harder. Beautiful boy. Yes, Sherlock. Moan just like that. Perfect. So fucking perfect.

Q was seconds away and it was all he could do not to give out a strangled cry as his orgasm built to overwhelming proportions. He squeezed his balls and pictured James doing the same. That was enough. Over the edge and gone, Q’s back arched and he clenched his arse, feeling the warm stickiness of his ejaculate coat his hand. He stroked himself gently afterward as though chasing the last of his climax, cum creating a slickness that felt so dirty and yet completely right.

The ceiling tiles that greeted Q’s eyes were a harsh reminder of where he really was and more than that: what he really meant to both men. Sighing, he cleaned himself off in a perfunctory manner and straightened his clothing. He sat at his desk and gazed at the monitors, realizing that the only thing he could do at this point was to report to M on his findings: John Watson wasn’t half the threat that Sherlock Holmes was now.

He could only hope that Bond would understand.


	6. Chapter 6

“Good afternoon, 007,” said M as the agent walked in the door. Bond looked his usual impeccable self and coolly glanced over at Q who sat in one of the visitor’s chairs opposite M’s desk.

“Should I expect to be reprimanded?” Bond asked M.

“We have new information regarding Captain Watson,” said M. “Or more specifically, his flat mate, Sherlock Holmes.” M threw a thick dossier on his desk and pointed to it. “This is becoming more and more of a mess, Bond.”

Bond picked up the folder and leafed through it as he sat in the other visitor’s chair. Q hadn’t said a word, but he knew that he was the one responsible for digging up this new information. Sherlock Holmes’ life sat before him, complete with photographs. Bond looked up at M and said: “He’s related to –“ M nodded. “Well, shit. But still… How does being John’s flat mate complicate things? I know from his job description that he’s a nosy bastard and if he’s related to… him, well… then he’s a well-connected bastard as well. John seems to think that our reunion is none of his flat mate’s concern. He’s willing to keep him out of it. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is,” answered Q, rankling at Bond’s free use of the name “John” in his conversation, “that Holmes has been sniffing around in the alley and looking at bullet holes and ricochet marks. He could compromise our mission without knowing it. He needs to be dealt with – reunions notwithstanding.”

“Agreed,” added M. “This is too important to the country.”

“Can’t we just get his, what, brother?” M nodded. “Can’t we just get his brother to tell him off?” asked Bond.

M smiled to himself. “Clearly you don’t have siblings.” Bond looked confused. “I’ve already been in touch with the elder Holmes and he assures me that in as much as he would like to help dissuade his brother from any investigation which would bring him close to this mission, he feels that – and I quote – any effort on his part would be like banging one’s head against a brick wall – unquote.” M looked at Q and Bond pointedly: “You will have to bring them both in. If this man can’t be deterred by one of the highest-ranking people in the government, brother or no, then he must be trusted. Mycroft Holmes seems to think that this would be the wisest course of action, distasteful as it may seem.”

Bond lowered his head in thought. Q spoke: “I’d like to be party to the debriefing.” Both men stared at Q. “To be sure that it remained professional and unbiased.” Q looked directly at Bond. A flash of anger rose in Bond’s eyes and his cheeks reddened.

“Do you seem to think that Bond can’t handle a simple debriefing, Q?” asked M. “Surely you have better things to do to occupy your time.”

“I have reason to believe that Bond is emotionally compromised when it comes to _John_ ,” he said with emphasis on the captain’s first name. His eyes never left Bond’s face. Q could feel the jealously in him showing. He couldn’t help it.

M looked between them and sighed. “Very well,” he said. “Bond, contact Captain Watson and get him and his flat mate to meet up with you tomorrow. Q, continue to monitor the younger Holmes and keep abreast of what he has managed to find out. We’re not going into this without knowing where all our chess pieces are on the table. That’s all.”

The two men rose and left M’s office. As the lift doors closed Bond turned to Q and said, “Was that really necessary, Q?”

“What?” asked Q. He wasn't looking at Bond, rather he was regarding their reflections in the metal doors. Bond looked like a great angry hulking thing next to him. He would be frightened if he didn’t find it mildly arousing. Q continued calmly: “I simply offered to do the best job I could for MI6 and the mission at hand. And you are compromised, aren’t you?” When he saw that flash of anger become a burning ember, Q suppressed a small smile. To Bond’s credit, he held his temper in check.

“Q,” asked Bond after a moment. “Are you jealous?”

The doors opened onto Q Branch level. Q exited and turned to face the agent. “How I feel is irrelevant to this mission -- as it should be for you. Why, James? Did you want me to be?”

The lift doors closed on a gobsmacked James Bond.

 

~080~

 

Bond flung down his suit jacket on the sofa and cast his keys down on the coffee table with a loud jangle. How dare Q accuse him of unprofessionalism! It was unthinkable. He knew that the dinner conversation was bugged, of course, but was Q actually monitoring them too? Of course he was. He was Q.

He stalked over to his liquor which stood on a side table in crystal decanters with matching glasses. He poured himself a large bourbon and settled back into his chair, savoring the first burning sip. He had to call John.

For a fleeting moment, he had the desire to tell John everything. As it was, John knew he worked for MI6, but in what capacity Bond had yet to reveal. John would probably assume “spy”, but he’d be only thinking the intelligence-gathering sort. He wouldn’t have a clue about the license to kill status. It might shock him. But then, it might not. Tough to tell.

He took another long sip and set the glass down. He drew out his mobile and dialed John’s number.

“Hello?” said John.

“H-hello, John,” said Bond. His voice cracked a bit and he cleared it. “It’s me, James. Do you have a moment?”

“Yeah,” said John. “Hang on a tick.” He could hear the man mounting the stairs and a door closing. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to ask you out to dinner again,” said Bond, impulsively. This was not part of the plan. He was supposed to just arrange for John and his flat mate to head to MI6 the next day. Bond had no idea why those words came out of his mouth, but he followed it up with: “Are you free tonight?”

There was a pause. “Yeah,” said John. Bond thought he sounded happy. “When and where?”

“Seven,” said Bond. “I’ll pick you up.” He planned on taking him to a restaurant out in Bethnal Green, one that Q couldn’t know about and far enough away so that Sherlock couldn’t track them easily.

“Right,” said John a bit hesitantly.

Bond could hear the unasked question in his mind. “Not anything you’ve got to put smart togs on for, mate. Street clothes will be fine.”

“You sure?” said John.

Bond chuckled. “I’m positive. You’ll be fine, John. I can’t wait to see you again.” He hung up with a smile on his face. He had a few hours to kill between now and then and decided to have a shower and then he would make reservations at the restaurant. He wanted everything to be perfect.

He stripped down and hopped into the shower, dialing the water as hot as he could stand it. A flash of memory caught him and he was suddenly side-by-side with John Watson in the open air shower in Kandahar when they finally felt a bit safer. Bond remembered a small but powerfully-built man, his tan lines a dead giveaway that he had spent some considerable time in trousers only. The waistline tan line was dramatic across his hips and arse.

In his fantasy, he reached for John only to notice a pale figure out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head to see Q standing there in the burning sun of the makeshift shower, naked, shaking, scared, and alone.

Bond opened his eyes. He had been leaning under the spray, forehead against the tiles when he roused himself. He had fallen asleep standing up. He knew that last night was rather sleepless and the mission had been running him ragged, but he had thought he could keep up with it all. He shook his head and noticed his penis at half-mast. The image of a lost and scared Q was still in his mind when he took himself in hand.

It was a shame that Q was so fucking stubborn in real life, thought Bond; if the man would give him just a little bit of weakness instead of constantly having to prove himself... ah well. Bond closed his eyes and in his mind’s eye opened his arms to that scared Q who fell into them bodily.

No. This was wrong. Q wasn’t like that. He was strong. He was stubborn. He had his pride. These are things that Bond actually admired about the boffin. This had to change.

The scene shifted to Bond’s own flat. Q standing there at the other end of his shower and desiring him was possible, but not overwhelmingly probable, Q most likely being asexual or celibate. Still, to have the man standing before him naked and strong, despite his thin frame, was a better turn-on for Bond and he stroked his soap-slicked hand over his prick, feeling it harden as he watched Q watching him with solemn eyes full of desire.

Slowly Q made his way toward Bond and Bond suppressed a shiver as he felt Q’s eyes roving all over him. He never touched him, just stood there, green eyes picking up on everything Bond was doing: his breath, his pulse point below his jawline, his stroke, how far the foreskin retracted, the muscles in his arm as he pumped himself closer to completion. It was all recorded in that brilliant brain that sat beneath the mop of slowly dampening hair. Occasionally, Q’s gaze would flick to Bond’s face and it made it want to beg Q to take hold of him and make him cum. The words were on the tip of his tongue as he stroked himself harder and faster: Please, Q… Do this for me… I want… I want…

Bond exploded with a cry of “ _Please!_ ” on his lips.

He leaned against the tile with one hand, his other still wrapped about his member, and caught his breath. Why was he fantasizing about Q when he had John? It made no sense. Why would he get off on the image of a guy who wanted nothing at all to do with him—oh. Well, that’s just not fair. Forbidden fruit, eh? Damn it.

He finished his shower in his usual utilitarian way and got dressed. He had a bit of an evening to plan and fantasy or no fantasy: Q was not to be a part of it.

 

~080~

 

“I’ll bet you I can,” said John over his fourth pint.

“Never happen, mate,” said Bond, starting on his crème brulee.

John smiled and scooted his chair closer to James. He leaned over and placed one hand on the back of Bond’s chair, the other on the table, his mouth dangerously close to Bond’s ear. “In fact, I’m willing to wager that you’re hard with the thought as it is.”

Bond froze. It was true that heat had spread southward as John accused him of being hard up for sex – so much so that John said that he could make James cum without even touching him. Right there. In the restaurant. In front of God and everyone. “I’m not wrong,” asked John, “Am I, James?”

At the sound of his name, Bond flushed a bit. He collected himself quickly and took another spoonful of his dessert, letting the sweet custard and caramel distract him as best it could. It began to actually work, until John spoke again: “I’ll take your silence as a “yes”.” Bond grinned and looked slyly into John’s eyes. John returned his gaze with a look of hunger and control that took Bond’s breath away.

“Stop that,” said James, looking around. “Not here, for God’s sake.” He turned once more to John who hadn’t stopped staring at him with the same calm, smoldering look.  “You can’t be serious,” said Bond, unable to look away. John didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

James turned back to his dessert, feeling John’s gaze like a palpable touch. Finally, John said: “You want to cum for me, don’t you, James? Right here. In front of all these people.”

Bond froze again, only for a moment, before he chuckled. “Go on, then,” he said. “If you think you can. But I promise you: you won’t get to me John Watson.”

John smiled benignly. “Do you doubt my abilities or are you denying your level of desperation? Either way, there is a part of you that would love to orgasm right here in public. Admit it: the idea turns you on.”

“Perhaps,” Bond said more casually than he felt. His cock was betraying his cool demeanor by getting harder by the second.

“Face it, Bond,” said John. “You want to be controlled like this. You always have. That’s what made you such a good soldier. You love taking orders.” He took a sip of his pint and continued: “Just as right now you really love the idea of me ordering you to cum. You want to follow my orders, don’t you, James?” Bond swallowed his mouthful slowly, his vision unfocused. “You want to because you really _need_ to follow my orders, don’t you, Bond?” John glanced down. “Your dick is swelling even as I speak these words to you, isn’t it?”

It was. James worked hard to spoon another mouthful of dessert onto his spoon and place it on his tongue. He had no words of retort for John. He couldn’t respond. He merely stared into the middle distance and let John’s words wash over him.

“You also like the idea of cumming in a public place, don’t you, you filthy boy?” asked John. Bond squirmed in his chair. The thought was indeed appealing; it was so completely wrong. John noted his body language and said: “You need to move, don’t you? To alleviate the pressure. You want to rub yourself against me. You need that friction, don’t you, James?” John took another sip from his glass. “I know you want this, James, because I can see it in your face,” John continued. John’s face was composed; he was calm. Were anyone to happen to glance over, they would just see two men talking rather intimately about something completely innocuous. The only giveaway would probably be the beads of sweat that were starting to form on Bond’s brow. John was right: he needed to move. He wanted to press his erection (it was full-blown now) up against John’s arse and rut and push until he came deep inside him. As if he were capable of reading his thoughts, John said: “You want me right now, don’t you, James? Even now your eyes search for a secluded spot to shove me so that you can strip me and push into me.” His mouth came a hair’s breadth away from James ear when he whispered: “You want to fuck me, James Bond.” It wasn’t a question.

James’ grip on his dessert spoon caused his knuckles to whiten. His breath stuttered. He could barely control his trembling body. Jesus Christ, what John could do to him. It reminded him of Q’s ability as well: that shower fantasy where Q never touched him, just looked at him. That’s what John was doing to him now only it was real; it was really fucking happening. Bond began to rock himself subtly against his clothing in the chair. He didn’t care if John noticed or not. He just needed some fucking relief.

He glanced over at John and noticed a small smirk on his lips as he casually took another sip from his pint as though nothing were the matter and Bond weren’t fully erect and straining at his trousers. James Bond was never so grateful for long tablecloths. He considered taking another bite of his dessert, but the effort would be too much. He wanted John to keep talking. He wanted John to take hold of him and start pumping his dick. He wanted John to go to the gent’s with him and suck him off. He needed it. He needed something from him. Anything. “Please, John,” Bond heard himself beg.

“Cum for me, James,” said John, returning his voice to a low rumble in Bond’s ear. “You cum for me and I promise I’ll lick you clean when we get to your place.” John brought his head around to look Bond in the eyes a bit better. “Does that sound agreeable, Mr. Bond? Do you want me to taste you as you cum?” James nodded. “Then you know what you have to do, soldier.”

Seconds later he held John’s eyes as he came, his body arching subtly, his breath stuttering uncontrollably, his eyes lost in John’s.

When it was over John turned his head away and casually waived down a waiter. “Check, please,” he said.

 

~080~

 

Never was there a sight so beautiful as to see John Watson sucking his dick. True to his word, John licked and sucked on his head until James was overcome once again and John swallowed down everything James had to give. They wound up in the shower together.

Soaping each other up was a pleasure all its own. Their bodies, wet and wanting, slid against one another in a dance of tongues and skin. By the time the hot water had dissipated into something more akin to luke-warm, they were ripe for another round and collapsed heavily into the bed, John atop his keening James.

Hands pressed with fingers entwined as they greeted each other anew with longing kisses and breathless moans. John worked his way down James’ body, trailing kisses along his ribs until James turned over, exposing a well-turned arse to John. He massaged the cheeks and gave one a slap. “How about I tongue fuck you?” he asked. As if in answer, James propped himself up on his knees, arse in the air. John smiled. “You are an eager boy, aren’t you?” James hummed his assent into the pillows.

James had often thought about those nights in Kandahar before the last push. He and John would have to be very quiet not just to not disturb their compatriots, but more not to offend the locals. Couldn’t have that and worry about rebel attack at the same time, could they? But here, they could moan their pleasure at the top of their lungs. No one would object. It was a wonderful feeling, that freedom.

As John probed James’ arse with his tongue, James caught sight of John’s jumper on the floor. It wasn’t the same style as one Q would wear, but it was along the same pattern and Bond’s mind made the rest of the leap. With a slight twinge of guilt, he was instantly hard at the thought of Q doing this to him. And James had every reason to believe that his quartermaster would be amazing at it too.

It was a bright sunny day when he saw Q indulging in an ice cream cone in the office cantina. He was on the smoker’s balcony overlooking the city. It was the first warm day of the season and Q still had on that infernal knitted vest of his, shirt buttons done up to the neck. But he was enjoying the hell out of that ice cream.

A talented pink tongue wrapped itself around the gooey white of the vanilla, his red lips standing out all the more against the creamy confection. James closed his eyes and let the fantasy take him. John was penetrating him now, but all Bond wanted was that ruby-red, stroppy, cocky mouth on his arse, pink tongue darting in and out, now circling around his opening, now licking up his shaft like he licked that one small dribble of melting cream up the side of the cone on that hot shimmering day in August.

“God, Q… Q…” James uttered and his eyes flew wide at the realization of what he’d done.

John moaned in return, no hesitation in his actions. James hoped against hope that he’d misheard him. He tried to cover it: “God, you… you… really… son of a… Oh, John!”

John moaned with pleasure and delved deeper, but the damage was done. James, try as he might, couldn’t get the feeling back and, knowing he had to make it up to John somehow, moved himself away and sat up on his knees, motioning for John to switch places with him. He put John on his back and sucked John off, throwing every trick in the book at him and when John came gloriously, he was all too prepared to be contrite about licking him clean.

He’d never felt so awful about a thing in his life. It was one thing to call out another lover’s name in bed, but to call out the name of someone that you’ve never taken as a lover and to do it to someone who has saved your life… it was just not done. And intensely confusing.

The saddest part was: John looked entirely satisfied. He rested on Bond’s chest and buried his nose in the crook of James’ neck and shoulder. All this wanton affection was making Bond feel even more guilty. He had to re-focus.

“I know this isn’t the time for business,” said Bond into John’s ear as the man trailed kisses down his neck, “but my boss wants me to have a formal meeting at MI6 with you -- and your flat mate.”

“What?” John brought his head up. “Sherlock? Why Sherlock?”

“It seems he’s been nosing about where he shouldn’t,” said Bond.

John’s head fell to Bond’s chest and he let out a groan. “What has he done now?”

“Just get yourselves to MI6 by 15.00 tomorrow,” said Bond. “Everything will be explained there.”

“Right,” said John. “15.00… that leaves plenty of time to sleep in, doesn’t it?”

Bond regarded him curiously. “Yes,” he said cautiously. “It seems to. Why?”

John looked at Bond with a wicked grin. “How do you like your eggs?”

 

~080~

 

_“Bond,” said Q, “get me your coordinates and I’ll arrange a pick-up.”_

_Static._

_“Bond, respond.”_

_More static._

_“Jesus Christ, James,” pleaded Q. “Fucking respond!” Something in the back of Q’s mind told him that he was being unprofessional. He really didn’t give a damn anymore. His agent, his James, was in the field and unreachable. It wasn’t fair. Q had never wanted to be a field agent more than at that moment._

_Holy hell, someone, anyone, help him!_

_Can anyone help?_

_Where are you, James?_

_Can you hear me?_

_Jesus wept! What the hell is going on here? His computer screen went black. The blue blip that was James Bond went silent. He was in the dark. There were voices of confusion around him but he was frozen to the spot and straining to hear through the static. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. What the hell was going on? Where was Bond?_

_“James!”_

_“Where the hell are you, James?”_

_“I can’t see you anymore! Help me find you!”_

_“Please!”_

_“Please!”_

_His face was wet. He was crying. Or bleeding. Probably both._

_“I’ve got him,” said a voice._

_“Who the hell is this?” asked Q. He was still in the dark._

_“Captain John Watson,” said the voice._

 

Q awoke screaming.


	7. Chapter 7

He was gone all night this time. Sherlock had done everything in his power to find a distraction to occupy his overactive mind, not to mention his overactive imagination. He had fidgeted between starting, checking, and ending experiments, even ones he had conducted before, messing with the variables of temperature and alkaline qualities just to find that the results are as he first hypothesized. He scratched away at his violin and stopped immediately when he discovered that his fingers were finding notes that his heart would have him play: tragic melody, achingly beautiful in its ascent and descent through the key of D minor, said to be the saddest register most becoming of a melancholy refrain. By then it was two o’clock in the morning and Sherlock had gone hunting for John’s gun.

John was trying to be clever. It was adorable. He had hidden his gun in two different places: one for the gun, one for the bullets. Sherlock found both inside of ten minutes. He took careful aim at the smiley face on the wall, choosing to place the bullet right between the character’s eyes, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Sherlock looked at the gun carefully and tried again. Click. Nothing.

Oh… clever boy… he’s removed the firing pin. John, John… you are learning, aren’t you?

The front door opened and closed about ten the next morning. It woke Sherlock out of a boredom-induced sleep. He was on his feet in moments listening for John’s footfall. It was heavy, steady. Something was wrong. He opened the door to the stairwell and met John’s upturned face. Sherlock could see that he was guarding himself, but he asked anyway: “What did he do?”

John sighed. “Nothing, Sherlock. It’s nothing. Just go get dressed. We have to be at MI6 at 3pm today.”

“MI6?” asked Sherlock. He shook his head. He should have guessed. He re-focused on John: “But it’s not nothing, John. I can see it in the way you carry yourself. Your gait, remember?” John reached the landing and walked right up to Sherlock as he spoke, now more haltingly: “Your body is a very loud one.”

“Sherlock,” John whispered. Sherlock leaned in closely. “Sherlock,” John repeated, his eyes heavy with weariness. “Just please, Sherlock,” begged John as he grabbed the man’s shirt slowly and brought his ear close to his mouth. “Please… just fuck off about it.”

John pulled his head back and looked directly into Sherlock’s dazed eyes. Nose to nose, he gave Sherlock a moment before saying, “Why do you care so damn much anyway?”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “I- I-,” he began. “John,” he finished, pathetically. 

Now it was John’s turn for his eyes to fly open. “You must be joking,” he mumbled. He huffed a breath and pulled away from Sherlock twice as exhausted as he was before. He went upstairs and shouted back the details of their appointment to a stunned and flustered Sherlock.

“John,” said Sherlock. John stopped on the landing above, his back to Sherlock. “I am concerned about you because you are my friend. And this man, this Bond, he’s—“

“How did you know his name?” asked John. When Sherlock didn’t answer, John turned to face him.

Sherlock hung his head. “I found a business card in your jacket pocket,” he admitted quietly.

John grabbed the banister and hung his head in exasperation. “How could you?” he began.

“How could I not, John?” rebutted Sherlock. “He comes into your life and you throw our work away in order to what? Have a shag?”

“Our work?” said John. “What work? We don’t have a case, do we?”

“Not from Lestrade, no,” said Sherlock.

“Then what then?” asked John.

“The case of this mystery person calling himself Bond,” said Sherlock. “He’s the one requesting us to be at MI6 today, is he not?”

“Yes,” said John. “As a matter of fact—“

“Yes, well…” said Sherlock. “This only proves that I was right about him.”

“He said you were nosing about in places where you didn’t belong, Sherlock,” said John. “The whole reason that we’re going to MI6 at all is because of you!”

Sherlock pondered on this for a moment before replying: “You know he’s injured someone in that alleyway, John. The one where you met him?”

John rolled his eyes. “Well I heard the report of a gun from the street, so I would assume that the man’s hobbies didn’t include shooting at rats in alleyways for sport, Sherlock.”

“So the fact that you may have come across a murder scene in progress doesn’t disturb you?” asked Sherlock.

“After living with severed human heads kept in our fridge, Sherlock, nothing would disturb me,” said John turning back to his rooms. “Three o’clock. Be ready.”

 

~080~

 

“He’s stopped snooping, but he was in the proper alleyway,” said Q.

“Hmm?” said Bond.

Q sighed wearily. “Bond, will you please pay attention? Those two will be here in less than twenty minutes and I really need you and me to be on the same page.” He turned to the agent who sat on his right in one of the formal conference rooms in MI6. They thought it best to do the debriefing where cameras and microphones wouldn’t be so easily spotted and where the atmosphere would be formal yet disarming. London always looked spectacular after a hard rain and the view out the window gave evidence to the fact. “Are you listening to me, 007?” asked Q. He was cross.

“Yes, alright, Q,” said Bond, shocked by Q’s stern look. Q’s piercing stare caused a simultaneous wave of lust and flush of embarrassment in him. He still wasn’t over what he had done to John – or rather, almost done to John. He was still fairly certain that John had no earthly clue that James had made such a grievous faux-pas.

“What the hell is wrong with you, 007?” asked Q. He paused, waiting for Bond to explain himself. When it proved that an answer wasn’t forthcoming, he narrowed his eyes and postulated: “Did you and Captain Watson have a fight?”

“What? No!” said Bond. That wasn’t entirely true. Bond’s guilt had permeated into the rest of their evening and when the smell of cooking eggs and sausage reached his nose that morning, the feeling had returned in full force. They had eaten their breakfast in relative silence. The mood was such that John was on the verge of asking him three separate times what was bothering him, but never actually spoke the words. It was just as well though. Bond couldn’t think of how to make things better. Now to sit here and have the object of his fantasy accusing him of having troubles with John was almost too much intuition to credit. Bond became uncomfortable. He squirmed in his seat.

Q narrowed his eyes again, judging Bond’s body language and comparing it to the words that were coming out of his mouth. He must be really upset about something if he’s letting his body language slip. Q decided to press further: “What happened?” Q could feel the pettiness inside of him build as he added: “Was he not as spectacular in bed as you’d hoped?” He read Bond’s non-verbal response to that as a negative. He stabbed again: “Did he call out someone else’s name in bed?”

Bond stared hard at Q. Now that was the reaction Q was hoping for. The imp that lived on his left shoulder did a little jig. “Mind your own business, Q,” he said. It was almost a growl.

“It is my business, 007,” said Q, pushing past his petty glee and attempting to focus on the matter at hand. “I’m here to see that the debriefing goes as smoothly as possible. And in order to do that, I need all the information necessary to gauge the situation, predict people’s reactions to the information we’re about to disclose. You having a lover’s quarrel with one of these men—“

“It’s not a goddamned lover’s quarrel,” said Bond.

“Then what is your problem?” asked Q. “Your mind clearly isn’t here. What? Were you fantasizing about him just now?”

“What?” said Bond. “No! Q… where are you getting all this?”

“James,” began Q in a world-weary manner. He pulled up his glasses and pinched at the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Something in Bond stirred to hear Q use his first name. He never did that. “James,” Q started again, placing his glasses back on his face, “I’m jumping to all sorts of conclusions because you’re not speaking to me. You’ve given me no alternative. I can only go by what I see and what I already know to be true.”

“And what is it that you know?” asked Bond defensively.

Q huffed a sigh out of his nose. “I know that for the past two nights you’ve taken him back to your place, for what? A rousing game of tiddly-winks?” Bond let out a short bark of laughter and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He stared Q down as the man continued: “More like a rousing game of “How’s Your Father”….and then the use of his first name in our meeting earlier. You care for him. You knew him presumably during a time of great stress. Maiwand, was it?” Bond gave Q a look of surprise. Q shrugged. “The timeline fits,” he explained. “Maiwand was hell on earth. It was the two of you against the world then, but what you don’t seem to realize is that the world has moved on; you’ve both moved on.”

“I owe him my life, Q,” said Bond.

Q nodded. “And that’s significant, but your understandable affection and loyalty should not be carried out to the point of detriment to this country and its safety.”

“I can handle this,” said Bond.

“Oh, so there is something the matter,” said Q. Bond gave him a dirty look. “Well, out with it, man! We haven’t got all day and I’d rather not be blind-sided if I can help it.”

Bond sighed. Q was bulldog persistent when he had to be. “Fine,” he said. “It was me, not John.” He was disgusted with himself.

“What do you mean?” said Q. Bond gave time enough for the penny to drop. He didn’t have to wait long. “Oh… You mean that it was you who called out another person’s name.” Bond’s blush was undeniable. “My God, Bond. I knew you could be crude occasionally, but really…”

“That’s enough, Q,” said Bond.

“And now he’s angry with you,” said Q. “Is he even going to show up here today?”

“He should, yes,” said Bond. He looked at Q sheepishly. “I don’t think he realized I did it.”

There was a pause. “I see,” said Q. Nothing was said for a moment as Q looked at Bond somewhat sympathetically and Bond stared at his hands. “Still,” said Q finally, “no harm done.”

Bond raised his eyes wearily to Q. He looked as though his world were crushed before his eyes. Q never wanted to kiss him so badly in his life. “No,” Bond agreed sadly, “no harm done.”

“James, I-“ began Q.

“What?” asked Bond. He was suddenly very tired and wanted to go home.

“I’m sorry,” Q said. He placed a hand over Bond’s for a fleeting moment before removing it. It was a kiss of skin containing pure electricity for both men, but they said not a word regarding it.

Bond glanced at the clock. “They should be here anytime now.”

Q’s mobile pinged. He glanced at the display and typed a text back. “They’re here now. Security’s escorting them to us.” Q glanced up at Bond. “Are you alright?”

Bond smiled weakly at Q. “I’m always alright, Q.”

 

~080~

 

“Welcome, gentlemen,” said Bond with a confident grin he scrounged from somewhere. “Thank you for coming. This is my quartermaster and logistics expert. He’ll be joining us today.” Bond stood and greeted John with a handshake. It was stilted, not warming and Bond was a bit disappointed. John barely met his eyes. Clearly there was something wrong, but this was not the time to discuss it.

He shook Sherlock’s hand next. The effect was just the opposite; impassioned wasn’t close enough a word to describe Sherlock’s attitude toward Bond, yet he remained silent, curt. His eyes conveyed what his tongue didn’t: he wanted Bond dead. His bony handshake, almost crushing, held the same message. Bond held his ground and Sherlock’s eye throughout. He wasn’t going to give in to this nosy fucker.

Each man shook Q’s hand politely enough. Clearly Sherlock’s ire was meant for Bond alone. Was he actually jealous? It was a possibility, Bond supposed. He watched Q’s face as he greeted their guests: civil friendliness for both, emphasis on the “civil”. But there was a certain lilt in his voice when he spoke his welcomes and explanations to Sherlock. His smile reached his eyes. More than that, Q’s eyes seemed to wander up and down the detective. Bond looked from Q to Sherlock and back again as subtly as he could. No. Never happen. Could he… could Q actually be flirting with Sherlock Holmes?!

Q offered them something to drink. Bade them sit. They each took a chair opposite to those of Q and Bond, with John sitting opposite Q and Sherlock across. More than once in Q’s short introductory speech his glance would linger on the detective. Sherlock for his part seemed to barely notice, all his concentrated hate being thrown toward Bond. In a way, Bond was angry at Sherlock for ignoring Q. If that man had any idea how rare it was for Q to express attraction toward anyone, he would value what was happening here more than all the precious metals in the world. How dare he just pass it off like it was nothing?! Jesus Christ, if Q had once glanced at Bond like that…

Bond reigned in his anger as it was his turn to speak in the debriefing, but it wasn’t easy.

 

~080~

 

As Bond explained his role at MI6, Q sipped on his tea and watched the two men across the table. John Watson was all business. He nodded appropriately and seemed to be taking the whole meeting in stride. That was good. But when he greeted Bond, Q had expected some shade of camaraderie to leak through. Instead there was deference and cold civility. That was bad. Could John have figured out what James had done? Could the dawn of a new day have brought clarity to the sex-induced fog of the previous night’s activities? Q could only draw the conclusion that he had, that it had. Definitely not good.

In the light of this possible change in attitudes regarding James Bond, John Watson didn’t seem like that much of a threat to Q anymore, a fact which caused the imp on his left shoulder to do another jig. That’s right, Johnny boy. He’s a bisexual lothario, our James. Best you learn and accept that now. Vaguely, Q curiously wondered what name James actually called out last night.

As for Sherlock, the man’s eyes hit you like a two tonne truck. Startlingly blue. Jesus. And Q did have a thing for blue eyes. He was silent for the most part, his eyes taking in everything around him with rapt attention. Q could see why he made such a good detective.

As a male of the species he was also incredibly sexy: the strong jawline, elegant slightly retroussé nose, and the mop of raven hair. It all served to dramatically emphasize the pale skin and cause the eyes to stand out all the more. He was a thing of fucking beauty. Q couldn’t really keep himself from staring. After all, he seemed to be glaring at Bond for the entire time anyway, so Q could get away with it. The only person he was worried about was Watson, but he seemed decidedly focused. It was as if he were wanting this whole thing over so that he could leave the room at the soonest possible moment. Knowing what Q knew, he couldn’t blame Watson in the least.

 

~080~

 

Sherlock Holmes had his suspicions confirmed as soon as he saw James Bond. He was a killer. True, he worked for the government, but that only meant that his actions were sanctioned by a governmental body. It didn’t change the fact that this man had managed to kill more than one person in his career. Sherlock disliked him instantly.

Any person that allowed themselves to be a mindless tool for the government (or anyone, for that matter) was worthy of Sherlock’s contempt, and James Bond was getting the full compliment. He could find few positive points: he was fit – well, he’d have to be, wouldn’t he? And Bond was well-dressed – better than expected. Probably comes from a posh background. He’s most likely an orphan; one with vague memories of who his father was as a man. Bond’s whole aura spoke of a shadow of what a male should be, rather than an example he had grown up with. He bore no stress regarding what his sainted mother thought of the danger he put himself through. Easier to put your own life on the line knowing that no one would give a toss whether you lived or died. There was an echo of Sherlock’s own life in that.

James Bond had a certain false bravado… without the falseness. Hollow bravado, then. That was it. And Sherlock Holmes found it repugnant. At least with Sherlock, his skills as a detective were earned after honing his brain to become the databank it was. Hard work wrought that, not a few push-ups at the gym and some target practice. What Sherlock did required elegance, subtlety, shrewdness of thought. He sussed out the plot and beat the bad guys to the punch. Sherlock Holmes got killers locked up. The only thing separating James Bond from all those serial killers was a nod from Her Majesty’s Government. It was repellant.

And John, his John, was attracted to THAT? Unfathomable. Perhaps when he finally learned the truth… ah… here it came: Bond was telling them both about his actual duties as an agent of MI6. Sherlock allowed himself a sly glance at John. John had his mask on. Sherlock could see it now. It was the one he wore at poker games hoping that it would help him to win big with his mates down pub. Sherlock could see right through it, of course. John only wore his mask when he was truly upset. He tended to wear it when uncomfortable too: like the murder scene with the dead twin girls. It was certainly gruesome, yet the wounds themselves were no worse than what John had seen in battle. But since they were children and John was so very sentimental…

So what was it this time? Surely he wasn’t trying to use the mask as an agent for a bluff, therefore he was uncomfortable. He had to be. Sherlock was fairly certain he was correct, judging by how John had come home that morning. He had never seen John so bone-tired. Something in Sherlock ached with the recollection. And then he remembered how John fisted his shirt when he asked him to fuck off. He wished he hadn’t said that. It was unnecessary. Sherlock was only trying to look out for John. He should have been grateful. Sherlock stared at the table wondering why John wasn’t grateful.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John visibly stiffen. He had missed it. What had happened? Bond had said something. What was it?

 

~080~

 

“Tell them about the surveillance work you’ve done, Q,” said Bond.

Q. He called him Q. Short for quartermaster. Which wasn’t really a name, per se, but if it’s what Bond called him… and he tried to cover. He tried to fucking cover. John sank back into his seat as subtly as he could. He watched the skinny kid’s mouth move, but didn’t hear anything that came out of it. He was too busy being stabbed in the heart.

He thought he had rendered James speechless with the sex. He was so completely wrong. He should have known. He hadn’t been able to render anyone speechless since… John glanced at Sherlock who was looking at him warily. They knew each other well enough to pick up on the little things: speech patterns interrupted or changed, body language, etc. It was a comfortable existence to be that understood. It was why Sherlock was staring now. John waved him off and he went back to staring at his hands.

After a beat, John remembered how Sherlock looked at him only that morning: forlorn and lost. He had been on the verge of trying to tell John how he felt, hadn’t he? And John had rejected him. Oh bollocks. And here there was no old loyalty built up from the war. It actually happened almost immediately from that first crime scene, hadn’t it? They had been inseparable ever since. What was it Mycroft had said? “With Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield.” And he was right. They were in it together. Always.

And he had rendered Sherlock speechless just that morning. “John, I-,“ was as far as Sherlock had gotten in that split second of closeness between them. John had remembered being so fucking tired as to want to lay his head right on Sherlock’s chest and fall asleep standing up. He suppressed a small grin at the thought of Sherlock’s face if he had actually done such a thing. It might actually have been worth it. But as it was, John was too pained to think that cleverly. He had somehow done something to ruin the evening for James and it hadn’t cleared itself up by the morning either. He was too preoccupied in trying to think of what he had done wrong.

John had spent all that morning and early afternoon rolling all of last night’s events over and over in his mind. He was rimming James when things changed abruptly. He didn’t notice it at the time, because more pleasurable things followed soon after, but if John had to pinpoint a time and place… it was right after James had said those stumbling words… that John now realized weren’t meant for him. They were meant for the skinny kid across the table.

John never wanted to cry so badly in his life. Or shout. Or punch someone.

And then he saw it: this Q character was sneaking glances at Sherlock. Practically staring at him. John looked at Sherlock as subtly as he could, but the detective was staring at his hands. John knew the posture well: he feigned disinterest with his body language while being, in reality, all attention. He had simply observed all he needed to observe about these two and had shut down that capacity. But as he wasn’t returning Q’s looks, John felt a wave of relief pass over him. He wouldn’t know what he would have done had Sherlock AND James both been attracted to this boy. It was bad enough to realize that James was a lost cause, but if Sherlock had gone overboard for him too… it would have been too much to bear. After all, James was his past; Sherlock was his present. And if he was honest, John really couldn’t foresee a future without Sherlock. He didn’t want to.

That’s right: he didn’t want to. Sherlock was all he needed, wasn’t he? Someone to fight with, someone to work with, someone to live with… someone to love. He glanced again at the detective’s profile. He had entertained the thought of kissing that mouth before. But that fantasy was prompted mainly as a means to shut him up, or to distract him between cases. John was fairly certain that if Sherlock were bored enough that he would snog him by way of experimentation. Now that was a field study John could live with.

Suddenly, James being attracted to Q wasn’t all that big a deal. After all, it had only been two nights. And clearly James was in no position work-wise to have a steady relationship with anyone. But then, neither was John. How many dates had he broken with people in order to go traipsing around London on the heels of this whirlwind called Sherlock Holmes? And, if he were honest, how many times had he regretted following him? The answer was never.

So it’s really just as well that James was in love/lust/whatever with this boy. He wasn’t bad looking, after all. John could see James’ attraction. In fact, if they were talking just coloring alone, Sherlock and Q could be mistaken for family -- the only difference being Q’s green eyes. It was startling really.

Q was mentioning something about the alley way and smugglers. John wasn’t interested. He glanced at Sherlock again who still stared at his hands and sat still as a statue. John had had enough. He interrupted Q: “Listen, if it’s all the same to you, Q, I think Sherlock and I have heard enough. We won’t do any more snooping and if we see one another again, I’ll give James a wide berth. How’s that?”

Q was stunned. He paused for a moment before saying: “I will have to keep you under surveillance until the mission is completed to our satisfaction—“

John waved a hand at him. “Yes, of course,” he said. “That’ll be fine. We don’t care, do we, Sherlock?”

Sherlock had been staring at John ever since he first spoke: “No,” he said, a bit numbly. “We don’t care. My brother’s been keeping tabs on us for ages. It’s fine.”

“There you have it,” said John. He rose to leave, Sherlock echoing him. “So, James… Good to have seen you again.” John held out his hand as he leaned over the table. Bond shook it without a word. “Have a great life. I wish you two all the best. Really.” He grinned at Bond and left the room, a silent Sherlock following him out.


	8. Chapter 8

John was just past security at the door of MI6 when his mobile went off. It was James. He glanced over to Sherlock who was still arguing with the security people about the status of his belongings and something about the distrust of ill-fit authority figures who shouldn’t be put in charge of monkey shite at the zoo. Judging from the unamused looks on the guard’s faces, he would be there for a few minutes. He stepped outside and took the call. “Is there something else, James?” he asked.

“Yes,” said James. “Could you please explain your sudden departure just now?”

“I thought it would be obvious,” said John. This was actually easier than he thought. Maiwand and Kandahar would always be significant to them both, but it was the past. They needed to move on. This was the right thing to do. He glanced back toward the doors and saw Sherlock finally gathering his things and heading out. “Listen,” he began before James could speak, “why don’t you talk to that quartermaster of yours? He seems like he’s got a good head on his shoulders. And you fancy him, don’t you?”

There was silence on the other end for a moment. John interjected again: “Just go and talk to him. I think you’ll find that he fancies you back, if you weren’t lovers before this. Gotta go, James. Best of luck. Bye.” His thumb brushed the “end call” button just as Sherlock breezed past him and hailed a taxi.

The ride home was uneventful and Sherlock was uncharacteristically silent. John thought he would be rife with questions as to exactly what happened in that conference room. As he watched London roll by out the window, John thought he’d just ride things out and see where Sherlock stood on the matter. After all, they had waited this long to just get on with it, they could spare a few more minutes in a taxi.

Mercifully, Mrs. Hudson wasn’t home and they headed upstairs, the silence between them deafening. Sherlock was of a mind to bury himself in another set of experiments, if only to distract him from John’s obvious need to get the hell out of MI6. Sherlock could feel his raging jealousy lessen with every mile built up between Bond and Baker Street. He headed to the laptop with the idea of calling up some research on rapid-growth mold, but the jealousy that lingered wouldn’t let him concentrate enough to search properly. Finally he looked up to where John had been standing, arms crossed, waiting for Sherlock to talk to him. Sherlock rolled his eyes and asked: “Yes, John?”

John smirked. “Don’t you want to know why we left MI6 in such a hurry?”

“I assume that your now former lover had done something to upset you,” said Sherlock. “Your body language changed dramatically at one point, although I must admit that I missed the reason why.”

“He called him Q,” said John.

“The boy, you mean?” asked Sherlock. “Of course he called him Q, John. It’s short for “quartermaster” which, in case you missed it, is the boy’s title.”

“He is young, isn’t he?” mused John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “Entirely. One wonders if he’s qualified.”

“I would assume that he is,” said John. “During the meeting he was quite professional.”

“True,” said Sherlock.

“It’s no wonder James is attracted to him,” said John.

“Sorry?” said Sherlock looking up from the computer screen.

“James called him Q,” said John by way of explanation.

“Yes, you’ve said that,” said Sherlock completely befuddled. Why wouldn’t John just speak plainly?

“He called him Q last night as well,” said John.

Sherlock stared at John. The penny dropped. “Oh… OH!” said Sherlock. He stood and walked to John who looked at the detective with sweet eyes and a gentle grin. “I’m so very sorry, John. I had no idea.”

“Neither did I until the meeting,” said John. “Then it all fell into place.” He smiled a bit wider. “But then, it’s all for the best in the end, I think. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, straightening. “Yes it is, John. You should be happy to be rid of him. He’s nothing but a killer-for-hire, you know. We put men like that behind bars. Good riddance.”

“And besides, with you in my life, who needs a super spy, eh?” said John, bemused. 

Sherlock crinkled his nose in confusion. “Is that how you feel?”

John nodded and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso, pulling them together snugly. “It is.”

“John… John, I-“ stuttered Sherlock.

“Shut up, Sherlock,” said John as he wrapped a hand around the nape of Sherlock’s neck and pulled his face down toward his. Their lips met and John felt a surge of glee run through him as Sherlock melted into the kiss. He carded his fingers up through Sherlock’s hair and felt delicious heat spread in his groin. Sherlock’s hands ran up and down John’s back as if searching for that one spot to gain purchase. Without knowing it, John’s mouth was open to his and their tongues brushed for the first time, eliciting a wanton moan from them both.

As the kiss broke, John mumbled “Bugger me,” against Sherlock’s mouth, his hands cupping his face and diving in for the next wet warm kiss that seemed like nirvana and oblivion in one. Here was sweetness newborn; here was destiny. This was where they were both meant to be. The sands of Maiwand and Kandahar were nothing compared to the battlefield of London and the safety of the camp at 221B. Here there was danger and risk, but also camaraderie and trust. The unit cohesion present between them was a bond deeper than battle, wider than memory. And it was only getting stronger as they continued to kiss and caress each other in the sitting room.

“My room,” said John into Sherlock’s ear before biting the lobe. “Need to have you,” he said.

“Oh God, John,” said Sherlock. He was practically falling into John’s strong arms as he pressed in for one more kiss. John led him up the stairs by his mouth. Gaining the landing, both men shed their outer layers: John draped his jumper over the banister; Sherlock draped his suit jacket over John’s jumper. Shirts came off next, each man unbuttoning with lightning speed, staring the other down with ravenous looks.

John pressed toward Sherlock and grabbed his belt buckle. He sucked on his tongue as his fingers nimbly unlatched the buckle and pulled the flies aside, revealing Sherlock’s erection straining his silk boxers. They stood staring at one another for a brief second before John was on his knees before him, lowering his trousers and mouthing his covered dick. The heat of John’s mouth, the tantalizing pressure of his lips against such sensitive skin, was enough to make Sherlock tilt his head back and moan with longing. He looked down and said, “Yes, John… Oh dear God, yes… Please, John.”

John hummed against the hardness and Sherlock lost his mind. Never before had his mind gone completely blank. Even in the throes of heroin, his brain didn’t so much shut off as it calmed down. But this – this bliss – was incomparable to that. It was the intimate touch of one who understood and loved him despite all his faults. It was the culmination of years of friendship and unspoken longing. Sherlock caressed a hand over John’s head and did his best not to thrust his hips the way he wanted to. His breath stuttered. He wanted more.

Sherlock snaked a long-fingered hand beneath his waistband and pulled his cock outward toward John’s mouth. The tip was dripping with precum and marked the cloth. John placed his hand over the prominent bulge and began to stroke him off over the cloth. Sherlock took hold of his balls and gently rolled them, moaning his pleasure with incoherent noises, the English language rendered a distant memory.

John placed his lips at the tip of Sherlock’s cock as he stroked and hummed against the cloth. He could feel the foreskin push up against his lips as his hand slid over, the wet spot of the precum spreading. He licked the cloth and sucked gently at it, tasting Sherlock through the material. Sherlock’s mind went blank for the second time in ten minutes.

“More, John… Please,” said Sherlock. John leaned back and pulled the waistband down over the end of Sherlock’s prick, exposing its throbbing head and shaft. Gripping the cloth, John wrapped his lips around the head and circled his tongue around and across the slit delicately. “Christ! John! I’m going to… Jesus… I’m going to…” John wordlessly grabbed the root of his shaft and squeezed and pulled gently to stave off his orgasm.

John stood as he saw Sherlock come down from the edge. “Alright, Sherlock?” he asked. Sherlock answered him by placing his mouth on John’s, moaning at the taste of him. As the kiss broke and they breathed into each other’s mouths, Sherlock’s eyes searched John’s. His deft fingers found John’s belt and flies and his trousers were around his ankles in seconds.

“Your turn,” said Sherlock and he got on his knees. John’s boxer-briefs were barely holding back his erection and Sherlock couldn’t be more pleased. He pressed kisses along the shaft, rubbing his face in John’s erection, letting it caress his cheeks, mouth, nose, chin, in slow passionate circles. Nuzzling and kissing his way over John’s groin, the doctor expressed his pleasure with moans and two strong hands that carded and gently pulled at Sherlock’s hair. When John finally uttered: “Jesus fuck, Sherlock!” the detective pulled down one edge of his waistband and bit his hip hard enough to bruise.

John’s sharp inhale of breath was telling enough, but his stuttered breath was proof positive that this was exactly what the doctor wanted to happen. Just in case, Sherlock pulled his head away and looked up into the face of a thoroughly debauched John. John carded his hands softly through Sherlock’s curls and purred: “God, I love this. I love us like this. Don’t stop, Sherlock. You feel so fucking good.”

Sherlock decided to do John the same favor he did him: he pulled his erection toward him, pumped the shaft, and hummed, licked, and sucked around the clothed dripping tip. John arched his back beautifully for him at this, wanton abandon on his face. Soon enough, John reached down under his pants to grip at the base of his cock to stave off orgasm. It was just too much to see that face, to have that mouth, sucking along his hardened manhood. What in great fuck had he been wasting his time with women for, hell -- with James, when he could have been having this all along?

Sherlock stood before John searching his face. John knew that he must be waiting on him for clues as to what to do next. John thought it sweet. He cupped Sherlock’s face and kissed him gently. “I will take care of you, Sherlock. Don’t worry.”

“I have no fear that you will care for me, John,” said Sherlock. “It’s just…”

“What?” said John. “We’ll go slowly, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled. “Right then. Agreed. But, John… What I’ve been trying to ask you… Do you top or bottom?”

“Oh,” said John, his pride a bit injured realizing that Sherlock wasn’t a complete novice. “Um… either one, but I prefer to top.”

“Right then,” said Sherlock. “I presume you have lubricant, condoms?”

“Wardrobe,” said John. He was amazed at Sherlock’s sudden surge of confidence. He watched as Sherlock removed his remaining clothing and strode completely naked and erect to the wardrobe, finding both items within seconds. John took it as a cue to remove his own meager coverings and left them discarded on the floor beside his other clothes.

Sherlock came back to John and leaned in close to his ear. John could feel his warm breath as he said: “I’ll get in the bed and you can prepare me. I want you to top from the bottom. It’ll be easier for me.” He kissed his cheek and then his mouth. John’s cock stood at full attention at these words. Here was a position that would allow him to see him disappear inside Sherlock and give him a view of that tall, angular, alabaster figure he was now finding so fucking irresistible.

Sherlock got on all fours and bent his head low to the pillows as John knelt behind him with his hand coated in lube. Before penetrating him, John found that he couldn’t resist: he kissed and nipped at Sherlock’s perfectly turned arse, his tongue exploring his crack and hole, much to Sherlock’s enthusiastic delight. When John delved his tongue deep inside Sherlock and proceeded to tongue fuck him, Sherlock became very vocal: “Fuck, John… Yes… Oh Jesus wept, that’s good. Please, John… Don’t stop… More… need more.”

John placed one finger inside Sherlock, curled the end, and found his prostate in seconds. Sherlock’s head snapped up as he pressed himself deeper against John’s hand. “More… please. More,” he cried. The second finger took a bit of adjusting and John held it in until he felt Sherlock relax. John found that there was as much pleasure in watching Sherlock react to his ministrations as there would be in entering him. The bed creaked softly between them as Sherlock’s moans became quieter, almost gentle. John added a third finger.

Sherlock hissed at the pressure, but adjusted quickly and his hips ground out a rhythm against John’s hand that his cock couldn’t wait to experience. John stroked himself a few times with his free hand in the same pace he was using on Sherlock’s arse. Oh yes… this was going to be so fucking good.

John removed his hands and he soothed Sherlock with a gentle hush when he heard him whimper at the loss. John slipped on the condom and lubed up his aching prick. He got on his back and watched, half amazed, half aroused, as Sherlock Holmes – the Sherlock Holmes – straddled him, facing him, and looked so wanton and lascivious it was hardly to be credited.

John inhaled sharply as Sherlock took his hard prick in hand and guided it toward his hole. The pressure of the contact made both men cry out and John was on the verge of suggesting a different position when he felt his cock pass along the rings of muscle and deep inside Sherlock in one slow, aching, delicious movement.

John and Sherlock stared into each other’s eyes as Sherlock got used to the pressure of the whole of John’s cock inside him. Sherlock’s dick dripped precum on John’s abdomen and John dipped a finger in the small pool and brought it to his lips. Sherlock’s forehead crinkled as he watched John suck on his finger, a pink tongue darting out to lick along the tip. Instantly, Sherlock traced his own finger through the sticky fluid and brought it to John’s mouth.

John didn’t open his mouth, however. Sherlock changed tactics: he traced the precum-smeared finger along John’s lips, around and around, until eventually that pink tongue darted out for a lick. And then Sherlock had to move. He braced his feet against the mattress and came up off of John just to ease back down slowly -- his attention captured by the glistening precum on the doctor’s lips as he reacted to the motion. Sherlock repeated the action over and over, until John licked his lips more thoroughly, inciting Sherlock’s hand to make another pass through the building pool of precum and gingerly place his first two fingertips along John’s lips.

This time John opened up tongue first as Sherlock continued to take him in and pull away. He sucked Sherlock’s fingers in concert with the penetration and Sherlock let out a moan when he felt John’s tongue trace around the two fingers in his mouth. “Fuck me, John,” said Sherlock. “That’s just… obscene.” John smiled around Sherlock’s fingers.

In no time the pressure began to build for both of them and Sherlock’s rhythm became more and more disjointed. Finally, John grabbed his hips and thrust himself upward into Sherlock, fingertips digging into the pale flesh, sure to leave delicate bruises come sun-up. Sherlock arched backward at this and let out an unfettered cry that made John want him all the more. “You beautiful… Fucking gorgeous… Goddamn, Sherlock…” he said. There weren’t sufficient adjectives in the English language to describe the pure bliss it was to see Sherlock turned into a passionate primal version of himself.

Rocking back, Sherlock realized that with every thrust from John, his prostate was being grazed and it nearly caused him to lose his balance. “Son of a bitch!” he cursed. “More, John! Again! God, yes! Again!” He balanced both of his hands on John’s bent knees and bounced hard back into John as best he could manage. He was going to cum soon. “Oh God, John! Get me off, damn it. Please! Just touch my cock. I’m so close, John. Please!”

John smiled as he watched his flat mate lose his goddamned mind. He suddenly had a fantastic idea. Mid-thrust he held Sherlock in tightly, his hands pressing Sherlock’s hips to him, and in one smooth motion that impressed even himself, he flipped Sherlock on his back, bent the detective’s knees up toward his chest and pounded into him from above. “Wank yourself off, Sherlock,” he panted, the primal urge to dominate this man coming to a head. “Touch yourself. I want to watch as you cum. Do it.”

Sherlock’s blue eyes were wide with surprise and desire. He took hold of his cock and stroked himself in time with John’s pounding. He was over the edge in seconds crying out John’s name and swearing to Christ on high that John was the only one he’d ever wanted, the only one he’d ever needed, that he belonged to the doctor and only to him forever and for always.

For his part, John came when he heard Sherlock utter: “I’m yours, John Watson. Yours entirely! Ah! God yes, made for you! Fucking made for you!”

As John collapsed sweaty and panting against a Sherlock who continued to turn the phrase “only you” into a repetitive mantra, Sherlock wrapped his long legs around John’s waist and his arms around his head and neck. This was all they had both ever wanted: to love and be loved. John kissed Sherlock’s neck gently and whispered to him. “I love you too, Sherlock.”

Sherlock met his eyes and stroked a bead of sweat from his temple. His lazy, well-fucked grin told John all he needed to know, but Sherlock said it anyway: “Oh Captain, my Captain… love you…”

 

~080~

 

Bond took a slow sip from his whiskey and stared out of the window of his flat. The recent rain had left London slick and wet, the setting sun rendering it ruddy: a wounded city. Bond felt much the same way. John was gone. It was utterly devastating. So devastating, in fact, that James could scarcely believe that it happened. 

John had told him to talk to Q about how he felt. Bond just shook his head as to how John even could conceive of Bond being attracted to Q unless… Bond took another swig of the liquor. And how could he think that Q was attracted to him? It was laughable. John didn’t know Q from Adam. How could he think that that walking computer was even remotely capable of physical attraction?

No. It couldn’t be. Q wouldn’t waste his time, least of all with an agent. He was probably asexual anyway. Or a prude, which was worse. Probably didn’t like being touched. Bond couldn’t imagine it: to never want to be touched. Poor beggar.

Bond’s mobile went off. He eyed it. MI6. Wonderful. He sighed and set down his drink. “Hello?” he said.

“007?” asked Q.

“Go ahead, Q,” said Bond.

“Further intel on the mission,” said Q in clipped tones, perfectly professional. “You’ll be flying out to Cambodia in the afternoon tomorrow. Pack a bag. I’ll be by with your itinerary.”

“What? Tonight?” asked Bond.

“Have you company?” said Q. Bond thought he detected a note of cattiness in his voice.

“No,” said Bond. “But why make the trip? I could always pick up my things in the morning.”

“Just the same, I’m already on my way,” said Q. “So you may as well let me in.”

“Right,” said Bond. “ETA?”

“Ten minutes,” said Q. The call disconnected.

Bond shook his head and picked his drink back up. It was going to be a long night.

 

~080~

 

“Interesting,” said Q as he looked about Bond’s flat for the first time. “Very “old-money-meets-industrial”, 007. I expected no less from you.”

“Glad to know I don’t disappoint,” said Bond wryly, offering Q a drink with a gesture toward the bar.

Q waived him off, choosing instead to inspect the view out of the wall of windows toward Bond’s bedroom. Bond walked up to his quartermaster and stood just behind him. He leaned in and said: “Do you have something for me, Q?”

To Q’s credit, he hardly flinched before turning around. Hardly. Bond spotted the tell, however and filed it away under “Things That Are Interesting About Q”. “Yes, Bond,” said Q, smiling curtly. “Here,” he added, opening the satchel he carried about his shoulders. As he drew out each item, he described it: “Your tickets, passport, and visas, all in the same name. Standard procedure of memorization, if you please. Your weapon, coded to you as per usual. And a small can of atomized ether disguised as breath freshener. Please don’t use it as breath freshener. It will be an unpleasant experience.”

James smiled at that last commentary and took each item, placing it on the bedside table. He took particular care to check the weapon and make sure the safety was on, old habits and all that. After this formality, Bond decided that enough was enough. He was going to find out for himself whether or not Q fancied him. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” he asked Q. “I can put the kettle on.”

Q smiled briefly, almost condescendingly. “No need, 007,” he said. “I’ll be going now. Have a pleasant evening and enjoy your lie-in.” Q turned toward the sitting room, making to leave.

“Too bad I’ll be alone,” said Bond.

Q stopped and looked at him. “I suppose,” he said, a look of curiosity crossing his face. “But then, you could always scare up a distraction or two if you get bored.”

“No one I’d rather talk to than you, Q,” he said.

Q blinked. “That has to be the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said to me, 007,” he said.

“And yet,” said Bond, “the complete truth.” And it was. Bond found that he did want to get to know this enigma, to solve the riddle of Q.

“Why the sudden interest in me, may I ask?” asked Q.

“Because Q,” said Bond, walking up to him. “You’re a mystery I’ve got to solve.”

Q huffed a laugh. “No mystery, Bond,” he said. “I am your quartermaster. I provide you with the tools and logistics to get a job done. You do as I say in a coordinated effort and you don’t get killed. I give an order, you follow. Pretty standard.”

Bond shook his head. “That’s what you do,” he clarified, leaning in. “That’s not who you are.”

The gravity in the room shifted slightly and Q felt off-balance. Bond had never been this close to him before and it was… thrilling. Jesus, it really was thrilling for the object of his desire so close… Q could almost lean in… If he did it imperceptibly, slowly, he could just lean in… and take.

Their lips met and Q dared not breathe. He didn’t press. He just closed his eyes and waited. He prayed Bond wouldn’t pull away in anger. He prayed the man wouldn’t reach back and crack him in the face. He prayed. He waited. And nothing happened. Their lips still touched, but neither of them moved. Finally, Q opened his eyes and saw that Bond was staring at him steadily. Q pulled away, blushing profusely.

“I’m sorry, 007,” said Q, clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses. “I don’t know what came over me. I apologize. It was unprofessional and-“

“Oh fuck it, Q,” said Bond, irritated. “You and your bloody professionalism can go sodding hang.” And he gripped Q’s face and kissed him soundly.

This time there was no need to wait; Q knew exactly how to respond to James Bond with this kiss. He broke it briefly to swing the strap of his satchel over his head and drop the bag to the floor, but continued with new fervor, wrapping his arms around Bond’s neck and drowning in his kiss. Bond responded in kind and held Q’s trembling body close to him.

Q kissed like a starved animal ate: ravenously. His hands were everywhere and his kiss involved the whole of his mouth: lips, tongue, and teeth. “Mine,” he muttered as the kiss broke and formed anew. A strange surge of heat went through James at this utterance. He had never thought Q to be the possessive type, but now it all made sense. He was watching John Watson partly because of the mission, but also because he was jealous. James could help but chuckle at this discovery. “What’s so funny?” asked Q, pressing his forehead to James’ in another brief interval between bruising kisses.

“You are,” said James. 

Q looked puzzled. Panting, sex-flushed, and puzzled. He asked: “How so?” He licked at Bond’s mouth to illicit an answer.

Bond’s tongue darted out and brushed Q’s as he said: “You were jealous of John and me. I was right.”

Q shrugged. “Don’t think it’ll happen often, James. I don’t plan on allowing you to run off with anyone else. Not now.”

Bond grinned. “Fine by me.”

Q plunged in for another possessive kiss, this one with hands fisted tight in Bond’s short hair, controlling it, guiding it, until Q and James were both panting into each other’s mouths once again. “I need…” Q began. “I need…”

“You need what, Q?” asked Bond.

“I need to possess you, James,” said Q. “I need to show the world that you’re mine.”

“You want to fuck me,” said James. Q nodded. “Then say it, Q.”

“I-“ Q began. This was all so strange to be happening in real life. The universe was not this nice to him. But here he was. And there James was. Beautiful James. Strong James. Obedient James. Q’s eyes glazed over with lust at the thought of owning this man completely. It gave him confidence. “I want to fuck you, James Bond,” he said, his eyes aflame at the admission. “I want to fuck you and mark you as mine. I want to leave bruises on you. I want to leave bite marks. I want to claw your back. I want to watch as your body becomes a patchwork quilt of signs of my ownership of you.” Impulsively, Q pulled hard on Bond’s hair and heard him hiss an intake of breath. He added: “And then I want you to beg to cum for me, James Bond. I want you to beg your quartermaster for leave to cum.” He brought Bond’s face close and stared into his eyes, lessening his grip on his hair. “Do you want that too, James?”

“Jesus Christ, Q” said Bond. He was utterly at a loss. How in hell could he have not seen this streak in Q? He thought him a boffin who knew his way around a hard drive, but to be so… dominant. It was fucking hot! Jesus wept, but he wanted to beg Q for permission for everything. He wanted to get on his knees right this split second and beg to suck him off, beg to lick his ball sack, kiss his feet, anything. He looked into the green eyes before him and nodded weakly. “I want it, Q. I want all of it. Please. Please let me. God help me. I want you to tell me what you want. I need it, Q. Please.”

Q closed his eyes in ecstasy. Finally to be here in this moment with this great lion of a man… and to hear him beg to be told what to do… Fuck. It was almost too much to bear. Q’s mind spun with possibilities. What should he tell James to do? Where do they go from here? Before he could voice a command, Bond spoke again: “Please, Q, let me suck your cock.” Bond nibbled at his neck. “Please,” he begged into his skin.

“No,” said Q. It was his chance to dominate and he wasn’t going to let the moment pass.

Bond placed another searing kiss to his mouth. “Please,” he whined around Q’s bit bottom lip.

Q pulled back and looked him in the eyes. “No.”

“But-“

“Don’t make me spank you, James,” said Q.

James chuckled. “Alright, Q,” he said. “Have it your way.”

Q dipped in for a luxuriant kiss, one where his hands got to pull up Bond’s shirt and caress the flesh beneath. “Strip,” said Q. Bond was altogether too happy to comply.

“Yes, quartermaster,” he said with a grin as he unbuttoned his shirt. Q stripped off as well and a minute later both men stared at each other stark naked and wanting. Q circled Bond slowly, allowing his fingertips to glide over all the dips and curves and scars on the man. Bond closed his eyes and enjoyed the touch.

Once Q was around to Bond’s backside he said: “Bend over double, James… slowly.” Q salivated as James complied, muscles rippling and stretching to get Bond into the position asked for by his quartermaster. Q indulged in caressing Bond’s ample buttocks and, unable to resist, he placed a small kiss to the base of Bond’s spine. Heat spread to his cock when he heard Bond’s appreciative moan. His kiss evolved into a trail of small kisses along the man’s spine and down one buttock, his tongue licking the crease between arse and thigh – first one and then the other – and then trailing kisses back to his starting point at the top of Bond’s cleft. Q dropped to his knees and spent several minutes nibbling and kissing and licking Bond’s backside and massaging the muscle. It was too fucking perfect.

Bond tried his best not to wriggle about and relax into the position, but truth be told, he wanted Q to quit teasing him and just fuck him already. God knows he wanted him. Mercifully, Q licked his hole and James’ cock went from half-mast to full hard-on in a second’s time. “More,” Bond said, unable to help himself. “More, Q. Jesus… please more.”

Q dipped his tongue in Bond’s hole and tongue-fucked him with abandon. Bond spread his legs wider and felt Q pull his cheeks apart for better access. Soon Q was humming his pleasure and James said:   
Yes! God, yes, Q! Fuck!” Bond pushed back into the pressure, but he needed more. He needed those dexterous fingers inside of him opening him up. He begged Q again: “Please, Q… finger me. Jesus, please… Ah!”

“God, I love how you beg,” confessed Q and he moved to his feet and walked to Bond’s only bedside table. He gave him a questioning glance as he went to the drawer and Bond nodded, propping himself half-upright, hands on his knees. Lube bottle and condoms in hand, Q summoned him to the bed with a wicked look and a crooked finger. Bond smirked at the image: Q being seductively evil. It was fucking beautiful.

Bond crawled up the mattress on all fours and Q watched him with abject want in his eyes. He wanted to take Bond. He wanted to make him his. But first… “On your back, James,” Q commanded. Bond obeyed. Q set the lube and condoms on the table and straddled Bond’s torso. “You’re mine, James Bond,” he said and lowered his head to lick Bond’s suprasternal notch at his throat. He nipped the skin hard, causing a slight bruise on the skin that delighted Q. Bond gave out a cry when it happened, but that only added to Q’s lust. He tried it again: this time lower down on Bond’s chest, just above his left nipple. It was a real bite mark this time. One that would last for the rest of the few days left in the mission. Q was satisfied that if Bond were to ever disrobe in front of a mirror when he was away, he would be instantly reminded of what he was fighting for.

Next it was the abdomen, just to the right of the navel. The mark there would be more than apparent by tomorrow. Q dipped a tongue into the navel as he passed across again to bite down on Bond’s hip. Bond was writhing with every new mark, surprising himself with how much he enjoyed being “owned” by his quartermaster. Kisses were trailed across his belly, just skirting his pubic hair toward the other hip where Q took another bite, this one lingering and sucking; it would bruise nicely.

Bond carded hands through Q’s hair. He never fully appreciated its fullness and softness; Bond could spend the next forever simply petting Q’s gorgeous hair. He rolled his hips toward Q’s face, encouraging him toward his aching cock, but what was it Q had said? That he wanted Bond to beg for his permission to cum. Jesus wept! Another sucking pain on the inside of his right thigh reminded him of who was in control here. But Bond was not above begging: “Please Q. Save me from this agony. Do something to my cock. Anything. Please… please.” The last word was practically a whimper and Q’s grin was sinister as his red wet lips remained tantalizingly close to the head of James’ straining cock. “Please…” came the strangled cry again and Q’s little pink tongue darted out and licked the tip of the head.

It was barely a graze, but a shot of electricity ran down Bond’s legs and holy mother of God did he want to cum. “Not yet, James,” said Q. He was thoroughly enjoying the look on Bond’s face as he came apart beneath him. He could see his handiwork all over his skin and he ran a thoughtful finger over the bite on Bond’s right hip as he calculated his next move. “You want to do something for me, James?” he asked casually.

“Y-yes, Q,” said James. “Please.” That word was becoming a permanent fixture in his vocabulary.

“Suck me off,” said Q. He moved his body upward on the mattress and straddled Bond’s shoulders. Bond took Q’s arse in his hands and swallowed down Q’s cock as far as he could, sucking him hard on the pull-out. “GOD DAMN IT! AHH!” Q threw his head back and reveled in the sensation. Bond’s tongue circled the head once, twice, three times… before taking him in again and sucking down hard just as before. Q tried not to thrust his hips but the effort was almost impossible to maintain and he found himself choking Bond a bit on the next swallow.

For his part, Bond took it all in stride and used it as an excuse to pull off of Q’s cock to lick at his balls for a bit. For Q this was wonderful and he let Bond know through moans and strokes of his hair. Soon enough though, Bond was back at it and Q would never again doubt the man’s talents in bed. Son of a bitch, but he was good and Q was going to cum right down his throat if he didn’t regain some control. Through a super-human effort, Q pulled his cock away from Bond’s hot mouth and moved down the bed, rolling on a condom and lubing up a hand.

He positioned himself between Bond’s legs and sucked the man’s cock as he slowly inserted a finger. Bond hissed at the pressure, but soon relaxed and Q found the man’s prostate by the time he had inserted his second finger. James Bond came unglued. There were no discernible words in his outcry, but Q thought he detected something reminiscent of “Jesus Christ and all the saints and angels…FUCK!” Q added fuel to the fire when he hummed a low chuckle: Bond’s hips came up in a slow undulation and on the down-roll, Q inserted a third finger and took his mouth off of Bond’s cock, stroking it with his free hand.

“Don’t you dare cum until I tell you, James,” said Q.

“Y-yes, Q… Yes, quartermaster… Yes… oh YES,” said Bond. The man was lost to his own hormones. It was fascinating to watch.

Q lubed up his dick and pressed the tip against Bond’s opening, guiding his thighs up and to the sides of his chest with his hands. A few moments was all it took before the gentle feel of the rings of muscle giving way allowed Q’s shaft to glide steadily inward. By the time Q was balls-deep inside of Bond, they both had their heads flung back and were moaning lasciviously. Bond was tight and hot and Q felt his cock throb as he waited for Bond to adjust. For Bond, the pressure of Q’s cock was hard against his prostate and he was crawling out of his skin to have the man move, but at the same time, the rest of him was burning with the stretch. He knew he had to wait. He focused on his breathing and on the beautiful man above him.

Q was slim, but an alabaster god. He was the very picture of a dying saint in the moonlight that streamed in through the window, yet the light from the sitting room warmed him from the other side and the light played with his skin in such a way that it looked as if God couldn’t decide whether to send him to heaven or hell. “Fucking gorgeous, Q,” murmured Bond. The quartermaster’s eyes focused on him, his green eyes glinting beneath thick black fringe. “You are just fucking gorgeous… my Q.”

“N-need to move, James,” stuttered Q, smiling at the compliment. “Alright, love?” James nodded and Q pulled out and pushed in slowly. Bond grunted with the movement, but soon a steady rhythm was found and Bond stroked himself idly, preparing himself for the moment when Q would give him leave to cum. He wanted that moment more than he could say.

This was how it should be: Q above him, sweat glistening off his skin, fringe in his face, slim hips pumping into him, driving him half mad. Q fell forward a bit, Bond’s knees on his shoulders as he continued to thrust into the golden man beneath him, the man that was his and his alone. Q reveled in the look of him beneath him: taught skin over rippling muscle, all power beneath, and his marks all over, proving to the world that Q was his, for now and for always. The marks would eventually fade, of course, but he would enjoy replacing them with new ones in new places. The thought caused Q to increase his thrust and he felt pressure building in his balls.

Q re-set his knees into the mattress, re-establishing his balance as his thrust got faster and faster, deeper and deeper. Finally he was driving himself as powerfully as he could into James. “Going to cum, James…” he panted. “You cum too. Same time. Come on. Cum for me…”

It was a command that wasn’t hard to obey. James was close too and as they both ejaculated – Bond all over his chest and abdomen, Q deep inside of Bond – they cried out each other’s names in their ecstasy:

“James! Fuck! James! God, yes! Yes! James! AH!”

“Oh Q! Shit… shit…. Q! Fuck yes, Q! God!”

Q collapsed fully onto James not caring about condoms or spunk. He just needed to taste him. Greedily he kissed his possession and James responded with equal desire. Tongues slipped against each other as they tasted deeply and lingered, hovering over each other’s mouths one second, diving in for another kiss in the next.

“You are so fucking amazing, Q,” said James between kisses. His fingers carded through Q’s hair as their tongues danced around each other again. “I love the feel of you inside me.” He wrapped his legs around Q’s torso to demonstrate his meaning.

Q trailed kisses down Bond’s neck, burying his face in the crook between neck and shoulder. He murmured into his skin: “You really are mine, aren’t you James?”

“Always, Q,” said Bond. “Fucking hell… always.” After a moment he added: “After all, we’re a team, aren’t we? And it’s all about taking care of the unit, hm?”

“Agreed,” smiled Q, placing a soft kiss just behind Bond’s ear. “My agent.”

“Mmmm,” Bond hummed his agreement. “My quartermaster.”


End file.
